Becoming Family
by CaptainHooksGirl
Summary: Erik and Christine are finally together, but will happily ever after be everything they dreamed? Being a husband and father turns out to be a whole lot harder than Erik ever thought it would be, and he soon learns that although love is always beautiful, it's rarely easy. Sequel to "Becoming Erik." ExC and RxM
1. Prologue

**Author's Note: Hey, everyone! Well, here it is...the long awaited sequel to "Becoming Erik." I put a lot of hard work and a lot of love into this story, so I hope you guys will like it. Just a few quick notes before we begin. First of all, as you already know, _Phantom of the Opera_ belongs to Gaston Leroux, Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber, and Joel Schumacher - not me! Second, because this sequel contains a lot of OC's I've created a list of actors/actresses who I'd choose for the roles to give you an idea of what they should look and sound like (though the ages are off a bit for some because I couldn't find child actors/actresses that I liked for the roles).**

**Mélodie Chantal Gérard - Mia Wasikowska**

**Christophe de Chagny - Heath Ledger (RIP)**

**Alphonse Desmarias - Dick van Dyke**

**Madame LeBlanc - Angela Lansbury**

**Sapphira - Salma Hayek**

**Father Martin - Sir Anthony Hopkins**

**William Travingston - Colin Morgan**

**Elizabeth Travingston - Katie McGrath**

**Disclaimer: The actors/actresses mentioned are in no way associated with this story in real life, and the views expressed in this fanfic are soley the views of the author.**

**Well, now that that's over with, enjoy the story! I plan to be posting about one chapter a day, so keep your eyes open for more! Please leave a review if you like it! :)**

**~CaptainHooksGirl~**

**Prologue**

The autumn sky was a dazzling blue. Cloudless and sunny, the day might have been almost warm if not for the breeze blowing in from the north. It was late October, and there was a slight chill in the air, a whispered warning of winter's approach. Already the nights had become cold, transforming the morning dew into a thin layer of frost that glazed each brown blade of grass that crunched underfoot. But the sun was high now, sparkling like diamonds on the surface of the pond where a family of ducks was enjoying an afternoon swim, their iridescent feathers gleaming blue and green as they paddled lazily amid the shallows. But their quiet repose was short-lived, interrupted by a flurry of feathers and frightened quacking as two figures rushed by.

They might have been children, with their raucous laughter and mischievous grins—children or newlyweds. But in fact, they were neither. The way her eyes shone in amorous admiration, the way their kiss burned with passion, the way he held her like she was precious—no one would ever guess that they had been married for more than four years, for they were so obviously infatuated with one another, so incredibly besotted, that it seemed almost scandalous. Never had there been a happier couple in the history of France, for while there were many marriages of convenience in those days, theirs was a marriage of love.

Christine ran up the hill, her skirts and hair dancing wildly in the wind as she tried to outdistance her pursuer. Erik was not far behind, so when he arrived at the top of the hill, he was surprised to find that his wife had simply vanished. He turned to the left, then the right. No Christine. He glanced briefly over his shoulder to see whether she might have snuck up from behind, but still there was no sign of her. He was just about give up when a sudden snatch of color caught his eye, a bright bit of fabric billowing out from behind the trunk of the massive old maple to his left. He smirked.

"Oh, dear! It seems as though Christine has disappeared." He walked closer to the tree, as cool and nonchalant as though he were simply admiring the golden leaves that still clung to its skeletal branches. "I wonder where she could be hiding…"

Christine stifled a giggle, perfectly aware that her husband knew _exactly_ where she was.

"Aha!"

Christine screamed in mock terror as Erik rounded the corner, grabbing her wrist and pulling her close before she had the chance to escape. He leaned down to whisper in her ear, his warm breath tickling her cheek.

"Now that I have you, my dear, what are you going to do about it?" There was an impish twinkle in his eyes.

Christine grabbed the collar of his shirt, pulling him down to her level and devouring his lips with her own.

"Mmmmhh…Christine," he whispered between kisses, "seducing one's captor is perhaps the oldest trick in the book." He smiled against her lips. "Not original at all."

Christine returned the gesture with a rather mischievous smile of her own. "Who said I was seducing you?" She brought a hand to his cheek—his naked, disfigured, beautiful cheek—and kissed him again. She ran her index finger along his chiseled jaw until it came to rest beneath his chin. "I was merely _distracting_ you."

She removed her right hand from behind her back and waved his wallet in front of his eyes before playfully shoving him away.

Erik frowned, looking ridiculously serious. "Stealing is a crime, Christine. I'm afraid I shall have to demand that you return my personal items immediately."

"You'll have to catch me first."

He raised an eyebrow, silently accepting her challenge. "Pity. You won't escape this time."

Christine ran, but the chase was short-lived. Within moments he had swept her off her feet just as he had the day he'd carried her over the threshold to their new countryside home. She laughed and squealed with delight as he spun her around faster and faster until at last they tumbled down the hillside, landing in a tangled heap at the bottom, breathless and dizzy.

Christine was still laughing as she pushed a stray curl back into place and looked down at Erik who was pinned to the ground beneath her. The wallet lay somewhere in the grass, forgotten. "Does this mean I win?"

Erik smiled up at his wife, the dark chocolate curls spilling over her shoulders radiant in the afternoon sun. "No," he reached up to touch her cheek. "I have already won the only treasure I ever desired. And I will _never_ let her go."

Christine leaned down to kiss her husband. "Good. Because I don't want you to leave."

Erik sighed, frowning. "Sometimes I wonder…even after all this time…if these past four years haven't all been just a dream."

Christine smiled, running her fingers through his hair. "If they are, then I hope we never wake up."

She closed her eyes and rested her head against his chest, sighing contentedly and listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. She loved the sound of his heart. It always seemed to give her a boost of confidence, a sort of calm assurance, that her Angel was real, a man of flesh and blood—a man of heart and soul—who loved her more than she'd ever thought possible. Perhaps it was this confidence that gave her the courage to voice a question which she'd never been brave enough to ask before.

"Erik…Have you ever thought of what it might be like to have a family?" She opened her eyes to see his reaction.

Erik frowned, not fully understanding the question. "I have you. What more should I ever need?"

Christine sighed and rolled onto her back, crossing her arms behind her head so that she was resting against his side, staring up into the cloudless autumn sky. "I mean…children…Have you ever thought of what life might be like if we had children?"

Erik sat up. "Are you with child?"

She sighed again. Four years. Four years and still no pregnancy. Meg had conceived almost immediately after her wedding. It was hard to believe that her two best friends had been married more than two years ago. But Raoul seemed to have moved on, and Christine was happy for the two of them. Their son was nearly a year old now, and though Christine enjoyed their visits from time to time, her heart ached for a child of her own. She ran a hand over her barren womb. When she replied, it was barely a whisper, as if she hoped that if no one heard, it might not be true.

"No."


	2. A Trip into Town

**Chapter One: A Trip into Town**

The nearest town was more than five miles away, so a trip to the village market was a rare opportunity. Indeed, the Gérard family rarely went into town other than on Sundays to attend Mass and to obtain a few necessary food items. Most stores were closed on the Sabbath, but because it was a difficult journey into to town for so many of the local residents, a few exceptions were made.

It had been difficult, at first, to get Erik to come to worship services with her. For though Christine had convinced him to reevaluate his spiritual life, he preferred to read the scripture in the quiet solitude of their home, and if he was being perfectly honest, he feared confessing all the horrible things that he had done. Their wedding had been a rather private little affair with a shriveled little priest who was so very nearly blind that Erik could have walked in with his mask off, and the old man never would have known the difference. But once they had settled down, Christine had desired to attend church regularly, and Erik, who absolutely refused to let her go into town alone, was in a dilemma. With the exception of their wedding day, he had not set foot in a church in more than twenty-five years, and his experience with Father Destler had made him understandably wary.

For the first few weeks he had simply remained in the carriage while Christine went in to worship, listening to the service from a safe distance. Then one day, the organist fell ill, and the stand-in was clearly not musically inclined. After listening to a full ten minutes of instrumental abuse that would have made Carlotta's voice sound like a canary, he couldn't take it anymore. Such "music" had no place in an opera house, much less a house of God! Without a word, he burst through the doors in the middle of the service, walked straight over to the organ, and took up where the startled young man on the bench had left off. If the churchgoers were offended, it didn't last for long. Once the music began to flow from his experienced fingertips, a hushed awe fell over the crowd. Many a doubter had converted that day, after hearing what could only be described as the music of the angels that day. After the service, the kindly old priest had congratulated him.

"God has given you a magnificent gift, my son. Perhaps you would consider playing for us more often? Our current organist has expressed a desire to retire within a year or two, and we could use a man of your skill as a replacement."

If he had noticed the mask, he made no comment.

Erik had attended every Sunday after that, filling in for the organist as needed and eventually taking his place. Of course, after his voice was discovered, he had inevitably been asked to give vocal lessons to a few aspiring members of the choir. And over time, the suspicious glances of the townsfolk began to subside, replaced by a respect and admiration for his abilities. The mask was accepted as merely a curious eccentricity—though the scar that now extended over the lower half of his left cheek gave them some idea of what he might be trying to hide—and he found that as long as he did not make a fuss over it, neither did they. Currently, he had two students, an exceptional young tenor and a bright-eyed soprano. The girl was young—fourteen at best—but she showed promise. His two pupils were presently working on solos for the upcoming Christmas service, and wanting everything to perfection, Erik had suggested they have a few extra tutoring sessions over the next couple of months, which is how they had ended up in town on a Wednesday afternoon.

It was a quaint little town, really, barely more than a few hundred people. Shopping was generally limited—there was a bakery, a bookstore, a small grocery, a few clothing shops, and not much else. Anything more extravagant usually had to be shipped in by way of train to the local post office, which had received more than its fair share of business from the Gérards over the years as Erik had come to depend on it as a means of sending out his latest compositions to a publishing company in Paris.

But today was Wednesday, the day of the weekly craft bazaar when all the townsfolk came to display their wares—and a wonderful opportunity for Christine to go Christmas shopping! She fingered a tiny baby blanket absent-mindedly before shaking her head. It would have made a good present for the little future vicomte a year ago, but by now he would need something bigger. Still…there was a possibility that she might need it in the future…

"How much for the blanket?"

"Ten francs."

Christine bit her lip. "Five."

"Seven."

"Done."

Stuffing the small bundle of fabric into her bag, Christine paid the woman and thanked her for her time, realizing with a start that she had been shopping for nearly four hours! It would be getting dark soon, and most of the sellers had already begun to clear off their booths. Erik had said he'd be waiting for her outside the church, and she didn't want to keep him waiting any longer than necessary. Taking a shortcut between the bakery and the tailor's shop, she found herself in an incredibly dark and dank alleyway and was reminded of the many passageways beneath the opera house in Paris. Back then she hadn't minded the dark all that much—not with Erik nearby. But the shadows threw strange shapes in the evening light, and she shuddered, involuntarily hastening her pace. Then she heard it. A soft rustle of fabric, a sharp snap of a twig. Instantly, she whirled around but before she could scream, a gloved finger was on her lips. And her attacker was laughing.

"Oh, Erik!" she huffed. "Don't frighten me like that!"

His laughter subsided but the smile remained. "Forgive me, Christine. Old habits die hard, you know."

Christine shook her head and obligingly took his arm, outwardly annoyed but secretly grateful for the comfort of his presence. "How were the singing lessons?"

"They are progressing well. I think Jacques is ready, but Angélique still needs a bit of practice. She undoubtedly has the ability, but she lacks the confidence necessary to perform. Perhaps I intimidate her," he mused.

Christine raised an eyebrow. "You? Intimidating? Never!" She laughed.

"Do I amuse you?" He smiled and helped her up as they reached the carriage.

"Sometimes."

"Only sometimes?" He frowned. "Well, that simply will not do! Perhaps tonight I will show you just how _amusing_ I can be."

Christine gave him a playful shove. "Oh, Erik, hush! We're just outside of the church, for goodness' sake!"

"Is it wrong for a man to desire his wife?" he countered. "Does not the Word itself say that a man is to love his wife as God loves the church?" He kissed the back of her hand. "As surely as God created Eve for Adam alone, I believe He created you for me—though heaven knows I don't deserve it! You mean the world to me, Christine, and I don't know what I would do without you."

After more than an hour's ride, they arrived back at the house. By then the sun had set, and the temperature had already begun to drop the moment the last rays of daylight dipped below the horizon. They quickly put the horses up by the light of an old gas lamp, and rewarded the animals for their hard work with a few thick flakes of hay, which the horses immediately began to eat.

Erik ran his fingers over the sleek black body of the stallion. César had been a faithful friend for many years, going back to his time at the opera. Free-spirited and stubborn, he had always been Erik's favorite of the many horses owned by the Palais Garnier. They'd taken many a midnight ride together over the years, and he had missed his old friend when they'd moved into the countryside. How on earth Madame Giry had managed to track down and purchase the animal nearly a year after the infamous fire, he'd never know, but he was very grateful for her gift. He was a magnificent creature and a hard worker under Erik's gentle persuasion. But César was beginning to show his age. Even now, in the dim glow of the gas lamp, Erik could see a few flecks of gray in the old stallion's coat.

The other horse was a young chestnut gelding he'd given to Christine as a belated wedding gift after they'd acquired their current home. Docile and loving, he got along well with the older horse, and Christine had fallen in love with him almost immediately. Nevertheless, despite his good manners, the gelding loved to kick up his heels on those warm, breezy spring days, dancing across the pasture in a wild and wonderful race against the wind, and from such antics he had earned a most appropriate name—Toulouse. [1]

Christine gave each of the horses a final pat before once again taking Erik's arm and walking back to the house. It was a bit drafty from time to time, and without a fire to keep it warm in their absence, the house did not offer much protection from the cold. Of course, with the money they made from Erik's compositions and his private tutoring lessons, they could have afforded a maid to keep the house, but Erik had always favored his privacy, and Christine was more than willing to honor his wish. She knelt down in front of the hearth and began piling on the wood as Erik removed his wig and mask, thankful to be home at last.

He sighed. "I do wish Christmas would hurry up and get here. I don't enjoy these long trips into town."

Of course, what he really meant was, "I don't enjoy wearing this itchy wig and uncomfortable mask any more than I have to." Christine had originally tried to convince him that the townsfolk might accustom themselves to his face as they had the mask, but she knew by now that arguing with him was pointless, and so she continued to light the fire in silence.

"Did you find anything interesting at the market today?" he asked.

"A little. I bought a new scarf for Madame Giry and a silver comb for Meg." She purposefully avoided mentioning the blanket. Erik would surely think it silly for her to waste their money on a child which existed only in her imagination. "I hope she likes it. Goodness knows she can afford to buy much better now! Oh! That reminds me, I received a letter from her today at the post office. She said she may not be here for Christmas but that she plans to make a trip to their country estate sometime in the new year—January or early February, perhaps."

The de Chagny "country estate" was actually a rather small house situated less than a mile from the Gérard residence. Raoul had paid to have it built that Meg and Madame Giry might have a place to stay during their frequent trips to visit Christine as well as a place to escape from the stiff, stately life of a noble. Indeed, when the vicomte had to leave on business, his wife often spent several months in the little country house, enjoying the quieter, simpler company of her best friend.

Erik frowned. "And I suppose de Chagny will be coming with her?"

"I expect so. Oh, Erik, don't look at me like that! He is happily married now. I no longer mean anything to him except a friend of his childhood. Raoul may have his faults, but he is not the type to cheat on his wife." Erik started to say something, but Christine continued before he could protest. "And even if he w_as_, you'd have nothing to fear." She stood and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. "I may have loved him once upon a time, but I will love you forever." She gave him a quick kiss.

Erik sighed. "I just don't like him being so close to you. How can you not be tempted when he is so perfect, and I am…" He lifted a hand to his cheek.

She hugged him tighter. "You are perfect enough for me."

He smiled. "Well, then, I suppose that I am perfect enough." He walked over to the sofa in front of the fireplace and took a seat, wrapping his arm around Christine when she sat down beside him. "How is their son?"

"Christophe is doing well." Christine smiled at the thought of the child. Meg and Raoul had both agreed to name him in her honor since it was through their mutual friendship with her which had brought them together. "Meg says that he's walking now and starting to talk. His first word was 'No!'" She laughed.

"He's a de Chagny," Erik teased good-naturedly, "what do you expect?"

Christine smiled and cuddled closer. She was enjoying the warmth of the fire, the warmth of his touch. How many times had she fallen asleep in those strong arms? How many times had they kissed beside the fire? And still she wanted him, needed him. And he wanted and needed her! But no matter how many times they had come together—no matter how many times they had loved—no life had ever stirred within her, no child was ever formed. Erik had never expressed a desire for children, so it hadn't worried her at first. But her biological clock was ticking. Because she had married quite young, she knew it was likely that she had many childbearing years left before it was too late, but she desperately wanted to be a mother someday and she was beginning to wonder if she ever would.

Her husband frowned. "Something on your mind, Christine?"

She realized too late that she had been crying and hastily wiped her tears away. "Oh, it's nothing. Just a bit tired, I think."

Erik was skeptical but made no attempt to argue her claim. He had a good idea of what was bothering her, but it was a subject he didn't feel particularly comfortable with. He'd seen the look in her eyes when she had first held little Christophe. He knew that look. It was the same way he'd looked at her through the mirror all those years ago –a look of sadness, a look of longing. And he couldn't help but feel the slightest twinge of jealousy and resentment toward the child. Before the future vicomte had been born, she had been perfectly content with things as they were. His love had been enough. But now the de Chagnys had a beautiful baby boy, and suddenly, she felt that their family was incomplete. She hadn't said as much, but he knew. And the knowledge that she wanted something more in her life—indeed, something he might not be capable of giving her—troubled him. He often wondered whether the same malady which had caused his deformity might have also prevented him from being able to sire children. If that was the case, then perhaps it was all for the better; for while the thought of a child coming between them worried him, the thought of Christine's inevitable disappointment at delivering a "Devil's Child" quite nearly broke his heart.


	3. Visitors from Paris

**Chapter Two: Visitors from Paris**

Three weeks after their little excursion into town, Christine received another letter from Meg.

_My Dearest Christine,_

_ I hope my letter finds you well. Raoul and I are as happy as ever. It is hard to believe that we have been married for more than two years now!_

_Little Christophe has learned another new word, though I dare not write it on paper! Apparently he overheard the Comte swear when he spilled a bowl of soup in his lap. Now every time someone knocks over a glass of wine or he dumps his mashed peas in the floor he thinks he is supposed to say it. Raoul finds it amusing, but I hope he outgrows it before we go anywhere in public! On the positive side, Comte Phillipe has stopped swearing…._

_ Mother is doing well. She came to visit just yesterday, and we talked for hours about the way things used to be when it was just the three of us. I miss those days sometimes…. Her work at the opera house keeps her busy most of the time, but she still enjoys it. I keep asking her when she is going to retire, but her response is always the same: I will retire when I feel like it. Which, of course, we all know will never happen. _

_Erik & Monsieur Leroux's _The Phantom of the Opera_ is still a great success. The annual performance on the anniversary of the opera house fire is coming up, and they are beginning auditions for the roles next week. I wonder what the two of you would think if you could see your own story played out by others. I have only seen one production of the play besides when you and Erik were on stage, and I actually thought it a bit laughable. The actors were good, of course, but their voices could not compare. Perhaps it is because you sing with love. Very few people have a love like yours for Erik. It is a blessing, and you should always treasure it. _

_In fact, if not for your love I might never have discovered mine! I remember the day you first pointed out the vicomte to me when we were practicing for _Hannibal. _I thought him handsome even then, though I had always supposed that he would end up with you. (I admit, rather ashamedly, that there were times when I was jealous!) When Raoul and Erik got into that fight, I thought I had ruined everything! I feared that Erik would die, and you would be left without a husband after breaking off the engagement with Raoul. But they say that God works in mysterious ways, and I suppose that must be true. I see now that Erik was the only one for you, and I'm quite glad things turned out the way that they did—for the both of us!_

_ Mother and I shall be coming down for a visit a bit sooner than expected. I regret that we won't be there on Christmas, but we should be there before the end of next month. It shall be so wonderful to see you both again!_

_Your Loving Friend,_

_Meg_

December dawned cold and gray, and the weather did little to lift Christine's sprits. Erik had gone into town again to assist his pupils in their vocal lessons, so Christine had the house to herself. She tried to keep herself busy by focusing on the decorations, but her heart wasn't really in it.

She had always loved Christmas as a child. The Christmases she'd spent with her father were by far the least extravagant, but they held a special place in her heart. He'd never been able to afford much, particularly when his health had begun to decline, but he always knew how to make her smile. She realized now how much he must have sacrificed just to buy her that China doll she'd wanted or even a simple box of chocolates. But somehow he'd always managed to scrape up enough to put a gift under the tree and a goose on the table. And no Midnight Mass could ever quite move her as much as her father's rendition of "Silent Night" on the violin. During their first Christmas together, Erik had made that old fiddle sing like it hadn't in ages, and Christine had been moved to tears. It was a part of their tradition now.

Then there were the opera house years. Caroling with the chorus girls, candies from the managers, and the annual gift exchange. It had all been fun, really, but it didn't feel quite as special, and Christine much preferred the quiet celebration at the Giry household to the drunken revelry of the opera dormitories.

And then there were the balls. Oh, what a lovely sight was the opera house at Christmastime! Mistletoe over every doorway, red and gold ribbons wrapped around all the banisters, and a magnificent evergreen tree that stood nearly two stories tall! Of course, until Raoul became the opera's patron, she had never had anyone to dance with, but she had enjoyed watching the other girls and getting dressed up, nonetheless. She wished sometimes that she could attend at least one Christmas ball with Erik, but Paris seemed a world away, and regardless of the distance, she knew it would be out of the question.

Erik had never really celebrated Christmas before their marriage, so the last four years had been spent creating their own holiday traditions. The first time she'd asked him to bring a tree into the house, he'd looked at her as though she were quite mad. He'd seen the tree in the opera house, of course, but being aware of a custom and understanding its significance are two very different things. Kissing under the mistletoe was an even stranger tradition. Mistletoe, he'd explained, is a parasite, and why on earth anyone would find a parasite romantic was beyond his comprehension…not that he was complaining. In fact, he was very appreciative of the tradition and took advantage of the sprig hanging over their doorway nearly every chance he got.

Having finished trimming the tree, Christine took a seat on the couch and stared up at the mantle over the hearth at the arrangement of holly boughs, fir tree sprigs, and candles. The centerpiece was a magnificent angel wrapping her wings protectively around the Holy Virgin and Christ Child. Christine sighed. Before Erik had left, he'd asked her what she wanted for Christmas this year. She'd replied that she didn't know, but that wasn't entirely true. Christine knew exactly what she wanted, but it didn't come in a package under the tree.

The de Chagny family arrived on the thirty-first of December, just six days after Christmas and just in time to celebrate the New Year with their extended "family." After only a single knock, Christine had flung open the door and thrown her arms around Meg's neck. Though Raoul and Erik were less than thrilled about spending another holiday under the same roof, they managed to be civil for the sake of their wives, who were giggling and gossiping like a couple of schoolgirls. Madame Giry stood to the side holding little Christophe and chuckling softly at the men's rather awkward handshake. It was a non-spoken agreement that they were not allowed to kill each other…at least, not while their wives were watching.

"Oh, Meg, you look so wonderful!" Christine gushed. "It seems that motherhood suits you well. Is that a new dress?"

"Oh, yes! Thank you. Raoul bought it for me for Christmas. What did Erik get you?"

"Do you see that painting over the fireplace?"

"Oh! Is that Toulouse and César? Christine, it's magnificent!"

"He painted it himself."

"I should have known."

"And who is this handsome young man?" Christine gently took the youngest de Chagny from his grandmother's arms. "Certainly not the same little baby I saw last time! Meg, he's gotten so big!"

"He has," she smiled. "He's also learned to get into a lot of mischief now that he can walk, so you might want to watch your Christmas ornaments or they could disappear."

"Ah, another magician?" Erik teased. "Well, I can certainly teach him a thing or two about making things disappear."

"I'm afraid he doesn't need any help," Meg laughed. "He's quite good at it already. The other day Raoul's pocket watch went missing. Two weeks later we found it—in a stocking underneath the bed!"

"Don't forget about Phillipe's reading glasses," Raoul interrupted. "We never did find them."

Christine laughed. "Well, it seems you two have quite a handful!"

"Have you considered having children, Christine?"

It was a harmless enough question, really, and Christine knew that Meg hadn't meant to upset her but it was still a touchy subject. She flushed and glanced first at Erik, then at the floor. "We're…trying…"

The vicomte knew better than to say anything, but Erik noticed his amused smirk. He didn't have to ask to know what he was thinking. Erik glared.

Realizing the rather uncomfortable direction in which the conversation had turned, Madame Giry tried to placate the situation before things got out of hand. "Perhaps now would be a good time for us to exchange our gifts?"

"Of course, Maman," Meg agreed. "Do you have the bag?"

The rest of the evening went smoothly. Christine received a diamond necklace from Meg and a crocheted woolen shawl from Madame Giry. Erik, who had insisted that he didn't need any gifts, was surprisingly delighted with the new-fangled musical contraption he received. Madame Giry had called it a phonograph. Being so far out in the country, the fashions and inventions prevalent in the big cities took awhile to reach them, so it was understandable that he had never heard of it before. Meg was kind enough to demonstrate how it worked using some of the records they had given him, and he had to admit that he was sufficiently impressed. Of course, being the inventor that he was, it was inevitable that he should want to take it apart to understand its internal workings…but that could wait until after the de Chagnys had left. [1]

By the time the sun went down, they were all laughing and reminiscing like the old friends that they were. Even Raoul and Erik had managed to temporarily put aside their differences over a bottle of wine and speak pleasantly with one another with an occasional verbal jousting match that was necessary to maintain their supposed enmity, which in truth, had become more of a brotherly rivalry over the years and an attempt to see who would lose his temper first.

Near midnight, they all went out to the veranda to watch the fireworks going off in town, tiny sparks of color that more closely resembled shooting stars than the magnificent explosions of color that had once cascaded down over the opera house on another New Year's Day many years ago. As the old grandfather clock began to chime, the two couples kissed and made their own silent resolutions. There was something special about this night that gave Christine hope—hope that perhaps this year would be different. If only she had known just how different it was going to be, she might not have been quite so cheerful.

[1] Since this story takes place about four years after "Becoming Erik," the date is Dec. 31, 1875. Actually, the phonograph wasn't invented until 1877, so it wouldn't have existed at this time, but Erik is notoriously hard to shop for, so I'm allowing for a slight time warp here. :)


	4. An Unpleasant Surprise

**Chapter Three: An Unpleasant Surprise**

Since his hugely successful opera had hit the stage, Erik had become quite an accomplished composer. In the years since his marriage, he'd had more inspiration than ever before, and he was churning out collections of compositions almost faster than the publisher could have them printed! Of course, opera was always his forte. He missed the opera house sometimes. Once or twice he'd wondered what it might be like to go back for a visit, but if he wasn't going to be on stage as the Phantom, he felt his mask might make him a bit too conspicuous in a crowd. And going without it was not an option. Once Parisian society realized that the great composer Erik Gérard wore his mask on and off the stage, it wouldn't be hard for them to put two and two together.

He had been working a new opera for quite some time now, and he was looking forward to completing it. If all went well, it might be ready for submission by the spring. Unfortunately, at the moment his muse was feeling rather ill and had taken to bed earlier that morning. She had complained of a back ache and stomach cramps that usually only occurred once a month. But he knew very well that it was not her time to bleed, and this time the pain seemed to be much worse than was usual. Sitting at the piano in their downstairs living room, he did his best to concentrate on the piece before him but his concern for Christine was currently outweighing his inspiration. Frowning, he scribbled out the line that he'd just written. There were more scribbles than there were actual words or music notes on the paper now. Sighing, he crumpled up the sheet and tossed it into the fire. He took out another sheet and dipped his pen into the inkwell.

He had not yet put pen to paper when he heard a shrill scream from the upstairs bedroom. In an instant, he was on his feet, not noticing that in his hurry he'd knocked over the ink, which was steadily spreading across the lid of the piano and dripping onto the keys. He ran up the stairs, raced down the hall, flung open the bedroom door…and stopped dead in his tracks. If not for the sound of his heavy breathing, he might have thought his heart had stopped beating.

The bed sheets were soaked in blood. Erik had seen plenty of murders in his day, but they were usually death by strangulation—clean, quiet, and efficient. He had never seen so much blood. There was a small trail leading from their bed to the bathroom. From behind the closed door, he could hear her weeping. At least she was alive.

"Christine?" Hesitantly, he knocked. "Christine?"

When there was no answer, he opened the door, and all the color drained from his face. Christine was sitting in the floor in a pool of blood, the bottom half of her nightgown completely saturated. In the toilet was a mass of little clots and something else. It almost looked like tissue…. And then he understood.

"Oh, Christine." Wordlessly, he helped her to her feet and gathered her trembling shoulders in his arms. "Why didn't you tell me?" he whispered.

She shook her head. "I didn't know," she wept. "I didn't know until…" She had to choke back a sob. "What kind of mother does that make me?"

"Shhhh…Christine." He could feel her hot tears soaking into his shirt.

"What's wrong with me?"

His own emotions were beginning to get the better of him. How dare this child—this thing which he had helped create—bring her so much pain! She had not even carried it full term and already it was a little demon, for only a demon could ever make an angel weep. Only a demon would make her think that she was imperfect when he was clearly the deficient one. _This is my fault. This is all my fault. _A tear slipped free.

"_Nothing_ is wrong with you, Christine."

"Then why can't I carry our child? Why can't I give you son or daughter?"

He gently rubbed her back. "You know that doesn't matter to me."

"I know." She looked up, her cheeks wet with the tears that continued to fall, each a precious diamond that dripped from her dark eyes. He wanted to save each one of those diamonds, to catch them before they could hit the floor. "But it matters to me." Her arms tightened around his waist, and she buried her face against chest. "I want my baby," she sobbed. "I want my baby…"

He wanted to help her. He wanted to tell her it was alright and that he was sorry. But such words seemed hollow and meaningless in the face of her loss. So instead he said nothing and simply held her close. He wished that there was more that he could do.

The following weeks were difficult. Christine stopped smiling. She stopped singing. She stopped eating right. But the real proof that something was wrong came when she refused to go church. It wasn't so much that she was angry with God—though, perhaps if she were being completely honest, she was—as much as the fact that she could not bear to see the other women with young children of their own. She knew that if she did, she would feel nothing but pain—pain and a burning jealousy like nothing she had ever experienced before. She wondered if that was how Erik had felt watching her sing that night on roof of the opera house.

She didn't blame him for her condition. She didn't mean to punish him. But the thought of conceiving—of ever going through such heart-wrenching agony again—was more than she could bear. Increasingly, she found herself lying on the couch or in the chair when it was time for bed. Not that she could ever actually get to sleep. The dark circles beneath her eyes bore witness to her fitful tossing and turning and horrifying dreams. The first time or two it happened, he had simply carried her up to bed, but she was always gone the next morning, sneaking downstairs in the middle of the night when she thought he was asleep. He could have stopped her, but he didn't. Eventually, he gave up even trying.

Erik was suffering as well. Christine's cold aloofness had taken its toll on his music as well as his self-esteem. Before, his compositions had expressed joy and love. Now the melodies were dark and haunting, reminiscent of his days beneath the opera house. It was as if all the beauty and light in his life had suddenly vanished, and he was suddenly thrust into a familiar world of darkness which threatened to reclaim his mind. In many ways, life went on as it had before. They ate breakfast together. They took tea together. They groomed the horses and cleaned out the stalls. But their conversations had become stilted, mechanical. She never shouted at him, never glared or even cried in his presence. She was as docile and polite as ever. But she never let him touch her for more than a few seconds before turning away. And he began to feel all of his old fears return. _She hates you. She hates your face. She hates that you can't give her a child._ The voices grew louder every day, and he feared the growing madness that was slowly consuming his life.

He began disappearing for long periods of time. Sometimes he would take one of the horses out for a ride and be gone for hours. Other times he would make up an excuse to go into town. Anything to get away from that house and the ghosts of his past that still haunted it. Sometimes Christine wouldn't see him for days only to find him out grooming the horses or sipping tea at the table the next morning. He abandoned himself to his music, asking the parish priest if he might spend some extra time practicing for the next Sunday's service to which the old man had quietly agreed. But sometimes he would get so lost in the music, so bogged down in the recesses of his mind that his fingers would slip into another melody, and what had been a magnificent song of worship was transformed into a desperate cry so melancholy in its tone that it drove away many who had come to confess. More than once the old priest had started to reprimand him only to find the masked musician with his head bowed over the keys, eyes closed, and tears streaming down his cheeks. And he didn't have the heart to ask him to leave. Somehow he understood that this _was_ his confession, a confession that he would never speak aloud. But if music was a form of worship, he supposed that it could also be a form of prayer. And if God understood the cry of such a broken soul, he saw no reason to interfere.

Erik came home late one night, surprised to see the warm glow of the lamplight still streaming through the downstairs window. _Christine must still be awake_. The thought troubled him. While before he'd wanted to spend every waking moment in her presence, now he avoided her at all costs. He didn't want to see that look of disappointment her eyes, the sadness, the hurt. He didn't want to see her because he knew he couldn't help her. And he couldn't bear to watch her suffer.

After spending several unnecessary hours at the barn grooming the horses, he finally decided it was time to go in when a rather sleepy César nipped at his hand in annoyance. Reluctantly, he put the brushes away and, despite the soft yellow glow in the window, opened the door to the house. He found Christine asleep in his armchair by the hearth, the blazing fire now a gray heap of ashes and smoldering coals. Even in her sleep, she appeared troubled, her soft, pink lips turned down in a frown, her brow wrinkled in concern. In her lap was an open bible, its gilded edges glimmering in the lantern's glow. His gaze drifted to the first verse on the page.

"And she vowed a vow and said, 'Oh, Lord of Hosts, if you will indeed look on the affliction of your servant and remember me and not forget your servant, but will give to your servant a son, I will give him to the Lord all the days of his life….'" [1]

"Oh, Christine…" Removing his cloak, he gently laid it over her shoulders and kissed her softly on the forehead. "I love you."

Walking quietly up the stairs, he set aside the mask and wig and collapsed onto the bed, not even bothering to change his clothes. He could hear her weeping again downstairs. He knew he should go to her, but some irrational fear kept him pinned to the bed where he lay awake for hours, staring up at the ceiling, muttering countless prayers that never seemed to get any farther than the tin roof. When at last he fell asleep to the sound of the early morning rain, it was in a house that seemed much too empty in bed that was far too cold.

He awoke to the sound of Christine vomiting into the toilet. In her early days on the stage, she had been known to quite literally worry herself sick, and it appeared she had done so once again. It seemed the stress of her miscarriage had put a strain on her health as well as their marriage. He wondered how long she had been ill and realized guiltily that he had been out of the house for the greater part of two days. Silently, he got out of bed and walked over to the bathroom door. He didn't bother to knock but went directly to her and knelt warily at her side, gathering her hair so that it was out of the way and gently rubbing her back. If she was uncomfortable with his closeness, she was too sick to protest. When at last she was finished, heaving nothing but bile from her stomach, she closed her eyes and fell willingly into his arms.

"I'm sorry you have to see me like this," she apologized.

"How long has this been going on?"

"Just a few days."

Erik inwardly cursed himself for being foolish enough to leave her alone for so long.

"I'm sure it's nothing serious…Just me…overreacting…" There were tears glistening in her eyes, but she refused to cry in front of him again. She knew he was having a difficult time, too, and she didn't want to make him feel any worse. "I think I'm going to go lie down on the sofa for awhile."

"No. Take the bed. I'll go downstairs." He hesitated. "Will it bother you if I play the piano?"

She smiled weakly. It was the first time he'd seen her smile in months. "I've missed hearing you play." Her attempt to keep the tears back was failing, and she pulled him closer. "Erik, I'm so sorry."

"So am I."

Almost a week had passed, and although their marriage was on the mend, Christine's health was not. If the illness had been stress-related, it should have disappeared several days ago, but it seemed that things had only gotten worse, and Erik was beginning to seriously consider calling in the town physician. He was a bit nervous about the situation, but for the moment, at least, he put aside his worries to work on his latest composition. It was a piece he'd dedicated to Christine and to the unnamed infant who had never had a chance to see the world, and unlike his other recent works, its bitter chords of melancholy were interwoven with undertones of the deepest love. It was nearly finished. He made a few minor adjustments, then decided to test it out on the piano to see if he was satisfied. He was nearing the end of the piece when he heard a voice from the upstairs bathroom.

"Erik? Erik!"

Rushing up the stairs, he hesitated when he neared the bathroom. His stomach churned. The last time this had happened, he'd found her in a puddle of blood. When he finally got the courage to open the door, he was relieved to see Christine standing near the counter. She appeared to be perfectly fine, but the look on her face was one of pure shock.

"Christine, what—"

Before he could finish, she placed a single cool finger on his lips. Wordlessly, she took his hand and placed it over her abdomen. Then she smiled. "I'm late."

Erik's eyes widened. "Impossible… How could—We didn't—Except…"

Except. Except for one night a little over a month ago. One night when she hadn't been able to face the darkness alone, when all she'd wanted was to be curled up in his arms and feel the beat of his heart and know that she was still loved. One night when they had loved with the passion of their wedding night. And one night, after years of trying, was all it had taken.

"You're going to be a father," she whispered.

Erik didn't know whether to cry or laugh. He had dreaded this day for years, and yet now that it was here, he felt an inexplicable joy. Christine was beaming at him, practically glowing with pride. And somehow that smile seemed to make all his earlier fears seem unfounded. God had heard their prayers and given them a child. And as he kissed his wife, tears streaming down both of their cheeks, he realized that he couldn't imagine such a miracle child being anything less than perfect. [2]

[1] This is Hannah's prayer from 1 Samuel 1:11. Hannah was the wife of a man called Elkanah. Elkhana had two wives, Hannah and Peninnah. Peninnah was able to bear children, but Hannah was barren. After asking God for a son, she soon found that she was with child. Her son was a boy called Samuel who ended up being one of the great Hebrew judges and anointed first Saul and later David as king of Israel.

[2] This entire chapter was inspired by a beautiful piece entitled "In Reverence" by David Tolk. If this fanfic was a movie, I envision Tolk's music being played in the background during the course of this segment of the story. If you want to get a feel for what Erik's music dedicated to Christine and the unborn child sounds like, go listen to this piece. You won't regret it! :)


	5. The Miracle Child

**Chapter Four: The Miracle Child**

As the months passed, the little child grew, and Christine's stomach began to swell. The first few months she had lived in constant fear that she would once again be unable to carry the child full-term, but when she finally got to the point where she could no longer fit in any of her dresses from the growing bulge in her abdomen, she began to calm down. The first time she'd felt the little one kick, she had been ecstatic.

Erik, of course, was the perfect husband, though he might have been a bit overprotective. The entire time of her pregnancy, he watched her like a hawk, hardly ever leaving her side for more than ten minutes at a time for fear that she would need assistance of some kind. He made her several new dresses and adjusted a few of the old ones appropriately so that she could attend church or go to the market without any discomfort. And, of course, he prepared all of her meals…even the ones that were a bit odd.

The de Chagnys and Madame Giry were overjoyed when they heard the news. After the miscarriage, Christine had stopped writing, and the only letter they'd received for months was a short note from Erik explaining the situation and asking them kindly to excuse their lack of contact until Christine was feeling better. So when Christine suddenly sent them an enthusiastic letter detailing her pregnancy, it came as a shock as well as a relief. Almost immediately after receiving the note, Meg had insisted on going for a visit. Unfortunately, Raoul was going to be away on business, and Madame Giry was unable to take off from the opera, so Meg had ended up coming alone. Several nights Erik had excused himself early to allow the girls time to catch up. He'd listen in from the upstairs bedroom, softly chuckling at the way they whispered and giggled like a couple of children who were up past their bedtime at a slumber party. Christine had many questions about the pregnancy, and Meg, being the more experienced of the two, had obligingly answered them all to the best of her ability. She promised to return when Christine's due date was near, for while some might have considered it strange for the wife of a vicomte to act as a midwife, Christine could think of no one she'd rather have by her side, and Meg wouldn't have had it any other way.

The mood swings were probably the most difficult aspect of the pregnancy, and Erik wasn't quite sure how to deal with them. Some days Christine would be practically bouncing off the walls and others she'd slump into a depression so deep he worried he might lose her again. And sometimes she would simply go off like a volcano for no reason at all. Before the pregnancy, they had never yelled at one another—not even during their darkest days—but now more and more often, they'd end up screaming at one another. Inevitably, Christine would start crying and make an effort to apologize, and inevitably, Erik would forgive her. Still, he desperately awaited the day that the baby would arrive and all these silly arguments would end. One disagreement, in particular, stood out in his mind.

The day had started just like any other. Erik got up early, fed the horses, and prepared breakfast as usual. Christine woke shortly after he had completed his morning chores, and he met her at the top of the stairs, taking her by the arm and carefully leading her down to the table. She sat down at one end of the table and waited for Erik to prepare her plate while the newspaper. It was last week's news, of course, because nobody was willing to bring a paper five miles out into the country, but it was recent enough to suit their purposes. She took a sip of her coffee and grimaced.

"It's a bit sweet."

"Yesterday you said I didn't put enough sugar in your coffee and ended up making a syrupy mixture so sweet I don't think even the ants would touch it."

"I know, but today I think I'd rather take my coffee black."

Erik bit back a rather sarcastic comment and quietly replaced her cup with another without any sugar.

Christine took a bite of her toast only to quickly spit it out again in her napkin. "Erik, this is _strawberry_ jam! You know I hate strawberry!"

"It was all we had left in cupboard."

"Well, I'd rather you hadn't put any jam on it at all."

"Christine, please, just eat it."

"But I don't _like_ it."

Erik hated losing his temper with her, but his patience was wearing thin. "Would you like it better if I force fed you?"

"_Excuse_ me?"

"Well, if you insist on behaving like a stubborn, spoiled child, then I shall have to treat you as such."

"Well, perhaps I'll stop acting like a child when _you_ stop behaving like such a _beast_!" The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them, and only after they had escaped did she realize her mistake. [1]

Erik felt his fists clench. Wordlessly, he got up from the table and left the room.

Christine started to get up. "Erik! Erik, wait! I didn't—" The slam of a door cut her off, and silently, she slumped back into the chair, watching the ripples made by her tears as they dripped into the steaming cup of coffee in her hand.

Half an hour later, she found him sitting on the veranda, staring out over the fields with a distant look in his eyes. He refused to meet her gaze but did not attempt to leave as she approached.

"May I sit by you?" she asked.

He did not speak, but answered her with a curt nod, his eyes never leaving the field.

She quietly took a seat on his left. "Erik." When she reached out to turn his face toward hers, he flinched away from her touch, turning his right cheek away so that it was against his shoulder. She sighed and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Erik, I'm sorry… I didn't mean that the way it sounded."

He closed his eyes. "I know."

She reached for one of the hands in his lap. This time he did not pull away. After a moment, she leaned her head against his shoulder. There were dark clouds gathering over the horizon, she noticed. Already she could hear the distant rumble of thunder.

"Storm's coming," Erik commented. "We should probably go back inside."

"Can we stay a bit longer? I rather like thunderstorms. I like to watch to the lightning in the sky. I think it's quite beautiful."

"And dangerous," he reminded her.

She smiled mischievously and looked up at him. "Perhaps that's why I like it."

The corners of his lips lifted ever so slightly. He could never stay angry with her for long. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and rested his head on top of hers. They spent the rest of the morning in silence, listening to the staccato of the rain on the tin roof and watching the lightning dance across the sky.

Christine sighed as they prepared for their weekly trip into town. "I do wish you didn't have to wear that mask every time we go out. I much prefer you without it."

Erik smirked. "And I much prefer _you_ without that dress, but I think the villagers would find it highly inappropriate for either of us to go without our necessary attire."

"Erik!"

He laughed. "Well it _is_ the truth, my dear."

"But the mask makes it so very difficult."

"Difficult?"

"To kiss my husband, of course!" She was very close. "Surely," she continued, "you would not deny your wife a kiss?" Her fingers traced the seam where the cool porcelain edge of the mask met his skin.

"Well," he smiled, "since you asked so nicely."

In an instant, the mask was off, and their lips met in a soft kiss. She could feel Erik smiling against her lips. "You're going to make us late," he warned.

"You're playing the music," she countered. "They can't start without you."

They kissed again, but this time it was deeper, longer. Suddenly, Christine pulled away with a gasp.

"Christine?"

"Erik! Erik, the baby!"

His eyes widened. "Now?"

She nodded frantically. "Now!" She pushed him toward the bedroom door. "Go get Madame Giry and Meg! Hurry!"

"I'm not leaving you here like this!"

"GO!"

The urgency in her voice was enough to let him know that now was not the time to argue. Within moments he was at the barn, leaping up onto César without even bothering to find a saddle, and racing over the fields toward the de Chagny house. When he banged on the door, a rather startled Meg answered it. Taking in his rather disheveled appearance, she was immediately concerned.

"Meg, is your mother home?" he panted.

"No, she just left for town with Christophe. I had a bit of a headache this morning, so I decided to stay home. Is everything alright?"

"Christine has gone into labor."

Meg stifled a gasp. "Oh! Just let me leave Mother a note, and we can leave."

By the time they got back to the house, Christine was already beginning to have contractions, and her agonized screaming was almost more than Erik could bear. When they reached the top of the stairs, Meg stopped him.

"You stay out here. If you go in right now as nervous as you are, you'll just upset her."

Another piercing scream came through the door. Erik grit his teeth. "She _needs_ me now."

In all honesty, he wanted to get as far away from that screaming as possible. He hated seeing Christine in pain, and he hated that there was nothing he could do about it. It was tearing up his nerves.

Meg put a hand on his shoulder. "I won't let anything happen to her. I love her, too, you know. She's my best friend." She could see the hesitation in his eyes. "I know what she's going through, and I'll take care of her. I promise."

At last, Erik nodded his assent, and began anxiously pacing the hall as Meg disappeared into the bedroom and shut the door. Unfortunately, he could still hear the screaming. He walked down the stairs and attempted to play something on the piano—anything to drown out the sound—but found that his hands were shaking uncontrollably, and any music he tried to caress or coerce out of the keyboard sounded absolutely horrible. Frustrated, he stood and started pacing again. He needed music now, the only drug which had ever been able to calm him when he was in such a state. But the music, it seemed, had deserted him. He closed his eyes and tried to visualize scenes from one of the many operas he knew so well, but his mind kept drifting back to Christine—Christine as Marguerite, Christine as Aminta, Christine in _Hannibal_—and her high notes were all wrong—too frightened, too painful, too urgent. It sounded as though she was being murdered up there! He glanced at the clock. Had it really been only fifteen minutes?

_I should be up there with her. I should be there by her side, holding her hand._

_No, Meg said to stay here._

_What does Meg know? You're her husband!_

_Meg has been through this before. She knows what she's doing._

_What if something goes wrong? What if she can't deliver the baby? What if she _dies_?_

With a frustrated cry of rage, he ripped off the wig—which he'd only just realized he was still wearing—and threw it to the ground. He gripped the railing of the stairs until his knuckles were white. "How long is this going to TAKE?"

He closed his eyes and attempted to calm his unsteady breathing.

_It's your fault she's in pain right now. It's your fault she's with child. It's your fault if she dies._

He suddenly felt sick to his stomach. He had never been so frightened in his entire life.

After more than five hours of listening to her scream, Erik thought he was going to go mad. At last, he could endure no more, and with a determined look in his eyes, he began to climb the stairs. And then the screaming stopped. The silence that suddenly engulfed the little cottage was deafening, and for a moment, Erik feared the worst. Then there was the sound of another cry, a cry much too small and weak to be Christine's. Tears of joy and relief clouded his vision.

_I'm a father_.

Still, he remained paralyzed on the steps, unable to open the bedroom door for fear of what he might find. He still had not heard a word from Christine. His heart hammered against his chest. When Meg opened the door, he was hesitant to meet her gaze. But then she smiled.

"Congratulations. You have a healthy baby girl."

"And Christine?"

Her smile widened. "She's fine. A bit tired, but otherwise fine. She's resting now. You can go in if you'd like to see her."

It took every ounce of willpower he had not to break down into sobs right then and there. Christine was fine. The baby was fine. They were a real family now… Suddenly, his blood ran cold, and he had to grab the banister to steady himself.

_Healthy. She called the baby healthy…but not beautiful._

He could barely articulate the words. "Is she…Does she favor her mother?"

Her smile faltered. "She is only a few minutes old. It is rather difficult to determine a likeness in a child so young." She was fidgeting with the fabric of her dress.

He could feel the tears coming, but he had to ask even though he feared he already knew the answer. "Please, tell me the truth…Does she…" He swallowed hard. "Does she look like me?"

There was an overwhelming look of pity in her eyes, and in that moment, even before she nodded, he knew. He slumped against the banister, giving in to the heaving sobs that he could no longer control. "What have I done?" he wept. "What have I done?"

When at last he had regained some control of his voice, he attempted to speak, though he dared not look up. He didn't want to see her pity.

"Would you please excuse us for a few hours? I think it may take some time for us to…" He couldn't finish the sentence, couldn't bring himself to say it out loud.

Poor Meg was still standing at the top of the stairs, wringing her hands and biting her lip with that same sorrowful look in her eyes. He knew he was making her uncomfortable. She had always been a timid girl, timid little "Mousey Meg" as some of the chorus girls had called her. For years she had been terrified of him when he was the Phantom, and although she had come to see him as a friend in the passing years, she never knew how to act in a situation like this. But, God bless her, she was trying! He supposed it would be easier on all of their nerves if he simply sent her away, giving him time to grieve alone with Christine.

"Of course," she nodded, feeling slightly guilty for the relief that washed over her. She made her way down the stairs carefully, as if she were afraid to walk by him, but when she arrived on the step beside him, she stopped and tentatively laid a hand on his arm. "You'll let us know if either of you needs anything?"

He nodded silently. When she reached the door, he suddenly called out to her. "Meg?" He forced himself to look up as she turned around. "Thank you."

She gave him a small, pained smile, then turned to leave, closing the door behind her.

He waited several minutes after she left before he finally found the courage to finish climbing the stairs. He hesitated when he reached the doorway, unsure of whether he could face the truth. When at last he walked in, it was with his back to Christine and the baby.

"Erik, would you like to come see our little girl?"

He couldn't see her, but he could tell from the sound of her voice that she was smiling, and it pained him to hear her in such a cheerful mood. In truth, he would have preferred it if she had screamed at him. He deserved it. _She's pretending to be happy for you. She's only doing this because she doesn't want to make you upset. She wanted this child more than anything, and you have ruined her dream._

"No." It was a pained gasp, as if he'd just had the breath knocked out of him. "No, I don't want to see her." He could almost feel the disappointment in her gaze burning a hole in his back, but he refused to turn around. He shook his head. "The one thing I thought I could do right…The one part of me that I thought could be beautiful…" He was choking on his words. He wanted desperately to hold her now. He needed to feel her arms around him, taste the salt of their tears in her kiss. "It would have been better if it had died before it was born like the other one."

"_Erik!_ Don't say such things! It's not her fault!"

At last he turned to face her, but he did not look at the bundle in her arms. "You're right. It's not her fault. It's mine."

He turned and walked to the door, desperately grabbing onto the frame for support.

"I didn't _say_ that!" she protested.

He hung his head. "It doesn't matter. It's true."

Stumbling down the stairs, he made his way to the piano where he collapsed onto the bench and immediately slipped into a melody so dark and desperate that it was nearly suffocating. But his vision was blurred, and he couldn't see the music sheets and he couldn't see the keys and the aching of his chest and the screaming of his mind were drowning out everything else. He slammed his fists into the keys, producing a very ugly sound. He imagined that if he were a music note, he might sound like that. He laid his arm up on the lid and rested his head against his arm, allowing his tears to fall silently on the keys, the sound of his sobs mingling with the wailing of an infant who had inherited his curse and the quiet weeping of a young mother whose heart was breaking for her husband.

When Madame Giry knocked on the door, it was nearly sunset. Erik didn't even bother to wipe the moisture from his cheeks as he got up from the bench and walked to the door with a solemn numbness. He didn't care anymore if someone saw him in his current state. He didn't care anymore about anything.

Madame Giry was practically beaming. "Congratulations, Erik!"

Had it been anyone else, he would have thought they were mocking him, but he had known Antoinette for too long to believe that her intentions were malicious. Perhaps she assumed they were tears of joy. "Thank you," he managed.

He brushed past her and walked outside. He couldn't stay in that house. He couldn't breathe in it.

Madame Giry frowned. "Erik, where are you going?"

"Out." He was headed for the stables.

"Without your mask?"

"I won't need it where I'm going. I won't ever need it again."

There was something in the tone of his voice, in the finality of what he had said, that sent off alarm bells in her mind. She grabbed his arm before he could go any further, turning him to face her. "Erik _what is going on_?"

He closed his eyes. "She didn't tell you, did she?"

Meg. Sweet little Meg who always minded her own business, who never told anything it wasn't her place to tell. When he had been the Phantom, he'd been grateful for her silence, but now he desperately wished that she had said something and spared him the humiliation of explaining things. She had meant well.

The ballet mistress' brow furrowed. "Didn't tell me what?"

He gripped her shoulders. "THAT THE CHILD HAS MY FACE!" He watched her expression fade from confusion to comprehension before settling into a strangely familiar mixture of pity and maternal love. He bowed his head. "The child has my face, Antoinette, and I…I can't live every day knowing that I have cursed another living soul—a child of my own flesh and blood—to live in a manner such as I did. The child deserves better, and so does Christine." He straightened his posture and held her at arm's length. "Antoinette, you have been a friend to me when no one else was, and God knows I didn't deserve it! Thank you for all that you have done for me…and for showing me that not everyone judges by appearances. Please, take care of Christine and tell her…" The tears were flowing freely again. "Tell her that I'm sorry."

"Erik!"

There was a panic in her voice, but he had turned away and her cry fell on deaf ears. César softly nickered as his master approached, and Erik stroked the old stallion's nose. "One last ride for an old friend?" he whispered.

"ERIK!"

But he was already on the horse, galloping off into the night with a long coil of rope wrapped around his arm, and the echoes of her screams were answered only by the wind.

The forest that bordered the Gérard and de Chagny land was unusually quiet. No crickets chirped. No deer stirred. Only the sound of the light breeze rustling through the treetops would disturb his grim task. A large silver moon hung just overhead, its pale light casting eerie shadows on the ground. Erik dismounted and ran his fingers through the black stallion's mane.

"Go home," he whispered.

The horse stepped forward, gently nudging his chest, as if he understood that this was a final farewell.

But Erik was firm in his resolve. "Go."

When César didn't budge, he gave the old horse a soft slap on the rear and watched as he ran off into the distance, waiting until he could no longer hear the hoof beats to climb the nearest tree. It would be quick and relatively painless. After so many years of hangings, he knew exactly how to snap a neck. Not that he deserved such an easy way out. Perhaps he should conduct it improperly so that he would suffer until the last breath was squeezed out of him as so many of his victims had. But as much as Erik hated to admit it, he was a bit of a coward when it came to death by strangulation. He knew from experience how painful it would be, and right now he just wanted to get it over with. There would certainly be enough tortures in hell to make up for it. After all, wasn't suicide the ultimate sin? It was murder in the worst form because, unlike all other sins, one could not ask forgiveness for causing his own death. Still, he tried.

"I'm sorry," he wept. It was an apology in advance to all of those he was disappointing—to the God he was disobeying, to the wife he was widowing, to the child he was leaving fatherless. "I'm sorry. I can't."

The rope was already around his neck, tied securely to the branch above. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes…and stepped off the branch. But just as he started to feel the sting of the rope on his neck, the overhead branch snapped unexpectedly, sending him hurdling toward the ground. He landed on his back with a thud, the large branch pinning his left arm to the ground. For a moment, he couldn't breathe, as if all of the air had been sucked out of his lungs by the force of the fall, but then he was coughing, gasping, and his breathing returned to normal. He lay there for a few minutes, contemplating the situation. Rope or not, for all intents and purposes, he should have been dead after a fall like that—or at the very least, have some broken bones—but surprisingly, he found that, although he was quite sore, he could move his arms and legs.

His left arm had been caught perfectly in a fork of the branch and was undamaged; he wriggled his fingers on his left hand and noticed the glint of the moonlight on the gold band he always wore as a promise to Christine and a promise to God. On the day they had been married, he had made a vow to stand by her for better or worse, for rich or for poor, in sickness and in health… And while their vows had said nothing specific in the way of miscarriages or less than perfect children, he had a feeling that it was covered somewhere in there, too.

As he looked up into the night sky, he was reminded of another night several years ago when he had slipped atop an icy opera house and found himself staring up at the stars. He had cursed God then, but somehow the Almighty had still heard his cry. He had given him a family, given him love. And if this, too, was somehow a part of God's plan he would try to accept it—even if he didn't understand. Erik recalled one Sunday when the priest had remarked that sometimes God had to knock a man flat on his back to force him to look up to the heavens. Of course, it hadn't been intended as a literal statement, but he was finding it to be quite true. Twice he had been knocked down on some of his darkest days, and twice he would right the wrongs in his life. Erik sat up. He knew what he had to do.

The soft creak of the door as he closed it behind him was followed by the padding of footsteps down the stairs.

"Erik?"

"Christine, what are you doing out of bed?"

"Oh, Erik, thank God you're alright! Where have you been?" She reached for the gas lamp on the wall.

"Don't turn up the light."

"Why?...Are you hurt?"

He hesitated. "It's nothing, really. I'm fine. No, Christine, please don't—"

But it was too late. Christine ran her fingers over the reddish purple band encircling his throat. "My goodness! Erik, what happened to your—"

And then she understood. Slowly, she withdrew her hand and began backing away from him a look of pure horror on her face. She turned away. "You…you tried to hang yourself?"

Erik stared at the floor.

"How could you?" she screamed. "How could you be so stupid, so—so incredibly _selfish?_" She whirled to face him. "Did you think that our daughter wouldn't need you—that _I_ wouldn't need you? Erik, what were you _thinking?_"

He closed his eyes and swallowed thickly. "I wasn't."

She turned away again.

He reached for her shoulder. "Christine. Christine, please, I'm sorry," he choked. "I'm so sorry."

At last she turned and took him in her arms. There were tears streaming down her face as well. "Don't ever leave me again. Promise you won't."

He held her close, running his fingers through her dark mane of curls, weeping into her hair. "I promise."

The sudden cry of a baby interrupted their reunion, and Christine gently pulled away. "I need to check on her," she explained. "She's probably hungry. You should get some sleep."

She started to move away, but he grabbed her hand. "No." He hesitated. "I'd like to come with you."

Christine smiled, and together, hand-in-hand, they made their way up the stairs to the nursery immediately adjacent to their bedroom. As they came to the doorway, Erik paused, unsure of whether he should continue. Christine gave his hand a gentle squeeze before releasing her grip and walking over to the crib, singing a lullaby as she lifted the tiny infant into her arms.

_You are my world, my darling._

_ What a wonderful world I see._

_ You are the song I'm singing._

_ You're my beautiful Mélodie. _[2]

The baby's cries had softened to a gentle coo, and Christine placed a soft kiss on her forehead. The tenderness with which she handled the child stirred a flurry of emotions in Erik's heart. His own mother had never dared to hold him so close, to kiss his face…and yet to Christine, he realized, this child who had his face was the most beautiful baby in the world. And he loved her all the more for it.

Christine carried the baby over to where he was standing. "Say hello to your father, Mélodie."

"Mélodie," he whispered. There were tears in his eyes. "You named her Mélodie?"

"Yes. Of course, if you don't like it then—"

"No," he choked. "No, it's perfect."

"Would you like to hold her?"

He did not answer but simply held out his arms. As he held his little daughter, looking into the innocent eyes that so closely resembled her mother's, he was overwhelmed with a sense of paternal affection and pride. "Oh, Mélodie, my precious Mélodie, I'm so sorry for what I have done to you. But I swear that your life will not be like mine. You will be happy here…and you will be loved."

[1] Erik & Christine's argument was inspired by a piece called "The Heart of a Man," a Beauty and the Beast fanfic written by LuLy-Fujiko. Please consider checking it out if you haven't read it. It's a really cute short story :)

[2] This song is part of Ariel's lullaby in the opening scene of _The Little Mermaid II_. I thought it was appropriate because, like Ariel, Christine is a wonderful singer and it would only be natural for her to name their daughter after something musical. However, because the story takes place in France, I used the French spelling of the name.


	6. Growing Up

**Chapter Five: Growing Up**

Erik watched his wife sleep, the gentle rise and fall of her chest her only movement. She seemed so calm, so peaceful, like some fairytale princess awaiting a kiss from her prince to break the spell. But he wasn't quite ready to wake her up. He enjoyed seeing her like this, when the morning sun's rays first came through the window alighting on her unbrushed curls and giving them an almost angelic glow. Though he had spent many such days watching her at the opera house from afar, he could still scarcely believe that the beautiful woman lying beside him had willingly become his wife. She stirred, and he gently brushed a misplaced curl to the side. Her eyes fluttered open.

"You are so beautiful," he said.

Christine smiled sleepily. "You say that every morning."

"Only because it's true."

"You know, one day I'm going to be old," she remarked teasingly.

"And you will still be beautiful then."

He kissed her on the lips, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss. But an impatient cry from the other side of the wall soon interrupted any plans they might have had to take things further. Christine pulled back first.

"Oh, dear," she laughed softly, "so much for a romantic morning." She sighed. "I'm afraid I'm needed elsewhere."

They had gotten used to such inopportune disruptions over the past year, and though it was tiring being a mother, she wouldn't have traded it for the world. She started to sit up, but he gently pushed her back down.

"No, don't get up. I'll go take care of her. You need your rest."

"And if she's hungry?"

"I'll bring her in here."

Christine smiled. "You're a good husband."

She closed her eyes again, listening to the sound of his footsteps and the slight creak of the bedroom door as he went into the next room. Within a few moments, the crying stopped, and Christine began to drift back to sleep. She was nearly asleep when she heard shouting coming from the other side of the wall.

"Christine! Christine, come quickly!"

Immediately, she threw off the covers and jumped out of bed, slamming the door against the wall in her haste to reach the nursery. "What happened? What's wro—"

Upon reaching the room, her breath caught in her throat.

Erik smiled. "Look."

Christine brought a hand to her chest. "Oh!" She knelt down in the doorway, opening her arms toward the child, who was hesitantly taking her first steps. "Come on, my little one," she encouraged. "Come to Mama."

They watched with baited breath as she took one tiny, wobbly step after another. She stumbled once but managed to right herself before she fell, coming at last to rest not in her mother's embrace but with her own pudgy little arms wrapped around her father's leg. Christine smiled and ran her fingers through the baby's soft golden curls—the same honey-brown color of Erik's hair. She gently scooped up the girl in her arms and held her so that she was facing Erik.

"You love your Papa, don't you?"

Erik sighed, smiling wistfully. "I only wish it would stay that way."

Christine frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Eventually she's going to grow up, Christine. One day she's going to realize that she's different from everyone else. The other children won't play with her. No suitor will ever look her way. And she will come to resent me for giving her such a curse."

"You don't know that."

Erik didn't argue, but instead answered with another sigh. "Christine, you are a wonderful mother, but I…I don't know how to be a father. My own mother—God bless her, she tried!—but she could not bring herself to love me, and my father…" He shook his head. "My father was a father in name only, and he was not deserving of the title. He never allowed me to call him such, nor would I have wanted to, had he given me the chance."

"Erik, I hardly know more than you. My mother died giving birth to me, and Father rarely spoke of her. All he ever told me was that she was very beautiful and very kind. I sometimes wonder if look like her…" She paused. "And, of course, you know what happened to my father. He was only there for the first seven years of my life, but it was wonderful while it lasted."

"At least you had a parent who loved you, however brief it might have been."

She put a hand on his arm. "Erik, when my father died, you took care of me. You watched over me. You were as good a father figure as any, even if I couldn't see you at the time." She smiled. "I turned out alright, didn't I?"

He nodded slowly.

"You'll make a wonderful father, I'm sure."

"And when I don't know what to do?"

She slipped her free hand into his. "Then we'll learn together."

xxxx

"Mother, must I wear the mask? I don't like it," whined a five-year-old Mélodie. It was the same every Sunday.

"I know, dear," Christine sighed and adjusted her daughter's dress, which had become horribly rumpled from all of her fidgeting. "I don't mind if you take it off, but you'll have to ask your father first. Now, sit down and let me fix your shoes." Once again they had somehow ended up on the wrong feet.

In truth, Christine hated making her daughter wear the mask. She thought it somewhat degrading for them to force their child to hide her face, as if they were ashamed of her appearance. While she respected Erik's choice to continue wearing a mask of his own, she felt that Mélodie should have the option of going without it if she so desired. But for the sake of her husband, she continued to enforce the rule without question, for she knew in her heart that it was not his daughter that he was ashamed of but himself. If the town ever saw Mélodie without her mask, they'd have a pretty good idea of what lay beneath his, and he wasn't quite ready for that.

Mélodie sat obediently, her short, chubby legs dangling over the edge of the chair which was a bit too high for her feet to reach the ground. She kicked them back and forth impatiently as Christine put the shoes to the side and began untangling the series of knots she had made in an attempt to tie them. Just then, Erik walked into the room.

"Papa," she asked, "do I have to wear the mask? It gets all hot and sticky and it makes my face feel funny."

Erik sighed. He felt so guilty for making her wear the little white piece of porcelain in her hand. As a child, he had hated his mother's makeshift masks with a passion. They made him feel ugly and unworthy, as if his natural face would never be good enough, and though she had never said as much, he sometimes wondered if Mélodie felt the same way. Of course, she never wore it while they were at home, but when it came time for their weekly trip to town, there was always a big fuss. He knew that it should be her choice—bless her heart, she was braver than he was!—but her face was like looking into a mirror and exposing her deformity would also expose his. At least when he had acted as the Phantom on stage, they had been expecting something gruesome, but the people of this town had come to accept him as essentially "normal," and he felt nauseated at the prospect of their reaction were they to see his face. And for the time being, that fear outweighed his guilt.

"Mélodie, you may stop wearing your mask when I stop wearing mine."

She pouted. "But you _never_ take yours off while we're in town."

"And for good reason."

Luckily, her hair was long enough to cover up most of the bald right portion of her skull, her deformity not being quite as extensive as his own. He could only imagine how difficult it would be to convince her to wear a wig!

"But Mama doesn't have to wear a mask! And neither does anyone else in the church!"

Erik pinched the bridge of his nose. How could he explain to her that they were not like other people? How could he tell his little girl that she was not the pretty little princess she thought she was in the eyes of the world? And how could he tell her it was his fault?

"Mélodie, our faces are…different…from others, and sometimes people don't like things that are different."

"But Father Martin says that God doesn't look at our faces. He only looks at our hearts. And the church is God's house, right?"

Curse her innocent, five-year-old logic! He sighed again. "And Father Martin is correct. But unfortunately, not everyone can see with the eyes of God."

Mélodie scrunched up her face, brown eyes bright with confusion. "I don't understand…"

"You will when you're older. Now, put the mask on."

"Aaawww, Papa! Mama, can't you make him change his mind?"

Christine laughed softly and gave her daughter a kiss on her less than perfect cheek. "Do as your father says. It will only be for a few hours, and then you can take it off again."

Mélodie frowned but reluctantly complied.

Christine made one last attempt to smooth the wrinkles from her daughter's dress, though she knew it wouldn't last, and smiled. "There. You look beautiful, Mélodie—with or without the mask. Don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise."

xxxx

On her eighth birthday, Mélodie received her first visit from Monsieur Leroux. Though she had often heard her parents speak about the reporter, she had never actually met him. Being as far out in the country as they were, it was difficult for Leroux to get away from business in Paris long enough to make the journey. In fact, in the years since their marriage, the Gérards had seen him only once when he'd been able to stop by for Christmas a few years before Mélodie was born. Since then, they had maintained contact with him only through the occasional letter or update from Madame Giry, so they were thrilled when they learned that he would be joining him for her birthday celebration. Of course, the term "celebration" was used rather loosely. The de Chagnys were unable to come that year—which was fine with Mélodie, who didn't particularly like Christophe—so it would be a rather small affair with just her parents and Leroux and a small chocolate birthday cake with frosting.

While it may have seemed odd not to invite any children, in truth, there were very few children in town. Most of the people who lived out this far were either elderly and retired or wealthy nobles who only used their property during certain portions of the year. And among the children who were her age, she'd never seemed to quite fit in—not so much because of the mask but because of her interest in subjects that seemed dull and uninteresting to her peers. Though she did not possess her father's musical ability—indeed, she lacked the patience to play an instrument and her voice, although pleasing, was nothing above the ordinary—she seemed to have inherited his superior intellect and unquenchable thirst for knowledge along with her mother's sense of curiosity. She would often stay after a service to ask the priest questions about the bible that sometimes even he was unable to answer—at least, not to her satisfaction—and she'd spend days poring over the scripture looking for the answer on her own. Many a Sunday the Gérards would find her arguing a point with the baffled old priest looking quite dismayed and have to apologize for her behavior, but Father Martin always simply waved it off. He was glad, he said, to have such an eager young mind in the church; she had even made him reexamine his own thoughts on a few subjects!

In particular, she found languages quite fascinating, and with the help of her father's books, she had managed to learn a good deal of English, Spanish, German, Latin, and even a bit of Greek in addition to her native French. Using this knowledge, she frequently attempted to decipher various translations of the bible as well as some of the classic novels she found particularly to her liking. It was interesting, she mused, to see how different cultures expressed the same idea—interesting and sometimes a bit disheartening. The English language, for instance, could never quite capture the poetics of the Psalms as well as Latin or Greek. Life, for her, was one great big piece of parchment with a thousand stories to be told in a thousand different tongues. While her father composed arias and operas, she composed stories of the most imaginative sort, so when she learned that the famous newspaper reporter and fiction writer Gaston Leroux was coming to their house, she was extremely excited.

"Is it true, Papa? Is he really coming today? I should very much like to meet him!"

"Patience, Mélodie. Yes, he is coming, but you must remember that it has been a long journey for him and he may not want to answer all of your questions at once."

Erik desperately hoped she wouldn't ask _too_ many questions. As of yet, they had never told her the story of _Le FantÔme de l'Opéra_, and he didn't particularly want Leroux's version of the story to be the first one she heard. Although it had been a huge success among Parisians, he thought it might prove a bit upsetting for the daughter of said Phantom.

There was a knock at the door, and Christine, who had just finished baking the cake, had to dust the flour from her hands on her apron before going to open the door.

"Ah! Christine," he boomed in his characteristically cheery voice, "it's been too long!" Before she could protest, he wrapped his arms around her, practically lifting her off the ground in his overly enthusiastic embrace.

"Oh!" Christine cried as her feet lifted off of the ground. She laughed. "Well, it's good to see you again!"

As he sat her back down on the floor he realized too late that he'd just gotten flour from her apron all down the front of his suit. "Oh! Oh, dear…Well, no matter," he chuckled. "It will wash."

Christine just laughed and shook her head.

By this time Erik had gotten up from his position on the couch to join them. "Well, I see you haven't changed." He smirked. "Hard to believe a man with your sense of humor writes such dark, gothic tales!"

"Well I _did _have a bit of help on that first one," he winked before firmly gripping his hand and giving him a rather hard slap on the back. "Good to see you, lad!"

Erik tried not to flinch. He still wasn't quite used to Leroux's overzealous greetings, which usually momentarily knocked the breath out of him. The man really didn't know his own strength!

"Now, I believe _someone_ was having a birthday today," Leroux grinned, "and I'm very anxious to meet her. Now where could she be…?" He could see a few little blonde curls sticking out from behind Christine's skirts. How on earth she'd gotten so close without him noticing before he didn't know…Then again, she _was_ Erik's daughter. He cocked his head to the side. "Are you hiding from me?" The left half of a little face peeked out, a shy grin on her face. "Don't worry, I don't bite," he teased.

Erik put a hand behind her back. "Go on, Mélodie. Say hello to Monsieur Leroux."

She looked at him questioningly. She'd never gone without her mask around anyone other than her parents and the de Chagnys, and she wasn't so sure about going without it now. It wasn't so much that she feared his reaction—no one had ever said anything unkind to her about her face, well no one but that little brat Christophe!—so much as the fact that she simply felt odd, almost indecent, meeting a stranger without it. She had become accustomed to it in much the way same way that a man might become accustomed to wearing a favorite hat—eventually it becomes so much a part of him that he forgets it is there, but when it goes missing, he suddenly feels naked and exposed. But her father was not wearing his mask, and so, she supposed it was safe for her to go without hers. Slowly, she stepped out from behind her mother, eyes cast down at the floor.

"Hello."

Leroux's eyes momentarily widened in surprise, but then he simply smiled. "Well, it seems as though she has the family resemblance." He chuckled. "Not to worry, little one. Your father just so happens to be one of the greatest minds of our time! If you're anything like him, you should be proud of it."

She grinned widely, exposing two rows of tiny pearls, but her front left tooth was missing.

"Ah, I see you've been visited by the tooth fairy lately, hmmm? Did she leave you anything?"

She nodded vigorously. "I put my tooth underneath the pillow, and the next morning it was gone and there was franc there instead, just like Mama said there would be!" She frowned. "Papa doesn't think that the tooth fairy is real, but I think she is. I've written a story about her, you know."

"So you're a writer, too, eh?"

"Oh, yes! I've written lots of stories! Would you like to read them? I know you've written a lot, too, but I haven't ever read any of your stories. Do you have any of them with you?"

"Mélodie," Erik warned, "what did I tell you about overwhelming our guest with questions?"

She blushed. "Sorry, Papa."

Leroux waved his hand. "Oh, she's not bothering me! In fact, it's rather nice to be in the company of a fellow author." He chuckled softly. "Well, Mélodie, I'm afraid I don't have any of my books with me, but I did bring something that I believe you'll find quite interesting. One moment, please. I'll be right back."

When he returned from the carriage, he was carrying a rather boxy looking contraption with a tube connected horizontally to the top and a keyboard with letters on it. He set it down on the table and pulled a chair out for Mélodie, who eagerly hopped into the seat so that she might further inspect the peculiar machine.

"What is it?" she asked curiously.

"I'd heard tell that you were a bit of a writer, Mélodie, so I thought I'd bring this along. This is the typewriter I use to write all of my manuscripts and articles for the paper."

"It writes the papers _for you_?" This was most certainly an incredible machine if it was capable of such a thing!

Leroux gave a hearty laugh. "Well, not exactly, my dear. I have to tell it what I want it to write, you see, but it does make things a lot easier for the publishers to read. Ask either one of your parents—my handwriting is not particularly neat."

"Neat?" Erik laughed. "Your handwriting is hardly legible! Perhaps you should start typing your letters as well."

"How does it work?" Mélodie asked.

Leroux took a seat next to her and pointed at the keyboard. "Try hitting one of the keys."

CLICK! A letter "K" appeared on the sheet of paper rolled tightly against the tube.

Mélodie gasped in delight.

"Well, go on," Leroux encouraged. "Type a sentence or two."

CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-DING!

"Oh! It makes music, too!" she squealed. "See, Papa! I _can_ make music. And I can do it while I'm writing a story at the same time!"

Erik smiled. "Why, so you can." He had a feeling he was going to hear a lot more of that dinging for awhile.

"Do you like it?" Leroux asked.

The little girl nodded eagerly. "Yes! Very much!"

"Well, then, it's yours. Happy birthday, Mélodie."

"Oh! You mean I can _keep_ it? Oh, thank you!" She threw her small arms around his rather large frame. "This is the best gift ever!"

Christine frowned. "But won't you need it for your writing?"

"Actually, I just bought a newer model. I don't really need this one anymore."

"But surely it must have been expensive for you to purchase. Are you certain we don't owe you anything?"

Leroux gave a wave of dismissal. "Of course not! Let her keep it and have her fun." He glanced at Mélodie . "But I _do _expect you to have some of your stories typed up before my next visit. Do you think you can do that for me?"

She nodded.

Leroux smiled. "Good. I'm certain I won't be disappointed."

xxxx

"Give it back, Christophe!"

From the top of the top of the stairs he waved a handful of papers, his brown eyes full of mischief. "Why don't you come up here and get it? Or are your legs deformed, too?"

"There is nothing wrong with my legs! Now GIVE. IT. BACK!" Mélodie raced up the stairs and tried to snatch the papers out of his hand, but being two years older, he was significantly taller than her, and he easily held them out of her reach. She jumped up to try to grab them, but he only laughed and held them higher.

"You're right. There's nothing wrong with your legs, but your _face_ is a different story." He leapt onto the banister and slid down before she had the chance to come after him.

"Arrrrgh! You're not even going to _have_ a face by the time I'm finished with you!"

She ran down the steps and chased him into the living room until they were circling the couch. While she might have been shy around Leroux, she was not afraid of Christophe.

"Hmm…Let's see what you've been writing." He cleared his throat and began to read in high-pitched voice that mocked hers. "_Once upon a time in a faraway land there lived a little girl with no friends_." He paused. "Hmmm…I wonder who that could be?"

"That's NOT what it says!"

"Oh, I'm sorry. I was mistaken. It must be the story of the Beauty and the Beast—unfortunately, your father's _still_ ugly!"

Mélodie leapt at him and pinned him to the ground. "TAKE THAT BACK!" She slammed a fist into his face. "TAKE IT BACK!"

"OW! STOP IT! OW! ALRIGHT! ALRIGHT! I'M SORRY! I WAS JUST JOKING! OW! STOP IT!"

By the time the adults—who had been quietly enjoying their tea in the kitchen—pulled them apart, Christophe had a fistful of Mélodie's hair, a bloody nose, and a busted lip. Mélodie looked little worse for the wear, but her papers had been ripped to shreds.

"I spent two weeks typing that! _Two weeks! _And you managed to ruin it in five seconds!"

"Well, it wouldn't have gotten ruined if you hadn't been hurting me!"

"Well, _I _wouldn't have been hurting you if you hadn't—"

"ENOUGH!" The vicomte's voice echoed off the walls of the small house. He glared at his son. "Christophe, I am very disappointed in you. You are a guest here, and as such I expect you to respect your hosts—_ALL_ of your hosts."

"I was only teasing her. _She_ started the fight."

Erik looked at her. "Mélodie, what happened?"

She shrugged. "He said you were ugly. So I hit him."

She said it in such a matter-of-fact way that Erik had to stifle a laugh, but Raoul was not amused.

Erik smirked. "What's the matter, de Chagny? Afraid she's ruined your son's perfect face? Don't look at me like that! It should be fine in a couple of weeks…though his nose may be a bit crooked." He paused. "You really should teach him to hold his tongue in the presence of his superiors."

"His _superiors_?"

Erik smirked. "Yes, those who are superior to him in their fighting skills, which, judging from I've seen, is nearly everyone."

"Now wait just a moment!"

"Might I remind you, de Chagny, that your son was just beaten by a girl more two years younger than him. I should have expected as much, really. You never were much of a fighter."

"You forget that I have beaten you twice."

"And _you_ forget that you only beat me the second time because you, quite literally, stabbed me in the back."

"BOYS!" Christine stepped between them. "Listen to the two of you! You're as bad as the children! How do expect them to act mature when this is the only example they ever see?" She sighed and shook her head before returning to the kitchen where Meg was still standing with a steaming cup of tea in one hand and a baby in the other.

After she had left, Raoul spoke up. "I still beat you the first time, fair and square."

Erik glared, but there was no real threat in his voice. "Beware, de Chagny. You may be the better swordsman, but I still have a few tricks up my sleeve. Keep your hand at the level of your eyes."

The vicomte laughed. "Now that would be quite a battle—a sword versus a rope! I should like to see that."

Erik raised an eyebrow. "Do you really think that our wives would be foolish enough to let us try?"

Raoul smirked. "No one said we had to tell them about it."

Erik rolled his eyes. "And then you'll get us _both _killed when they find out!"

Back in the kitchen, Christine was still shaking her head. "What are we going to do with them?"

Meg grinned. "The children or our husbands?"

Christine returned the smile. "Both."

They burst into a fit of giggles.

Meg snorted. "Men!"


	7. Restless

**Author's Note: A special thanks to Andimpink and PhantomFan01 for their reviews for the past few chapters. If anyone else is reading this, please consider leaving a review if you enjoy the story so far. I appreciate each and every comment! :) Now, onto the story! Things are about to get interesting...**

**Chapter Six: Restless**

By the time she was thirteen, Mélodie was beginning to grow restless. While Erik and Christine might have been satisfied living in such a secluded area, she was not. She'd read too many books about foreign countries and faraway lands to be content to live in isolation forever. Books were wonderful things—one of her favorite things, in fact—but they were simply not enough. She was tired of reading about adventures and culture and romance. She wanted to _live_ them. She stared out her bedroom window and sighed. _I'm never going to leave this town._

"Mélodie?"

She was so wrapped up in her own thoughts that she didn't hear him.

"Mélodie?"

The sound of her father's voice made her jump. She turned to face him and noticed that he was wearing the wig and mask. That could only mean that he was going out. "Sorry, Papa. I was just…thinking…"

Erik frowned. While his daughter had always been prone to daydreaming, she seemed to get lost in her thoughts quite a bit more than usual lately. She seemed anxious almost—frustrated. Or perhaps she was depressed. Yesterday she had asked once again why they couldn't go to Paris to see one of his operas performed on stage. The de Chagnys and Madame Giry and Monsieur Leroux all lived in Paris, after all. Why did everyone always come to _their_ house out in the middle of nowhere? Wouldn't it make more sense for them to go visit them in the capitol? His reply, of course, had been the same as always: Paris was a dangerous city—a city of muggers and cutthroats and prostitutes—and he would not risk her or her mother's safety. In truth, it was not those participating in illegal activities who concerned him but rather the ones who wore the badges. He was still a wanted man, and though he would have loved to return to the city, he knew he would be recognized immediately. While he could act like a normal man here in their quiet village, to walk the streets of Paris in the daylight would be suicide.

"I'm going into town to mail another batch of songs to the publisher. Would you like to come with me?"

She wanted to say that if they took that trip to Paris he wouldn't have to worry with the postage, but she bit her tongue. At least going into town was more interesting than staying in the house. "Can we go by the book shop?"

He smiled. "I suppose. Go get dressed."

By "dressed," of course, he meant the mask. She sighed and reluctantly walked over to the vanity. There was no mirror, of course. There were no mirrors in the entire house except for a small one in the upstairs bathroom that Christine used when applying her makeup or fixing her hair. She picked up the mask and hesitated. She knew practically everyone in town. Would they truly think of her differently if she went without it?

Erik was waiting at the front door. "Mélodie?"

She shook her head. He would never allow her to leave the house if she didn't put it on. "Coming, Papa!"

She slipped on the mask and shoved a coin purse into the pocket of her dress. She had been saving up, and she hoped she had enough to buy a new book. She wondered vaguely how much a train ticket to Paris would cost…

xxxx

A small bell over the door clanged as they entered the book shop.

"Just a moment!" An elderly gentleman poked his head out from behind the door leading to the back room. When he recognized the familiar pair of masked faces, his lips crinkled up in a smile. "Why, hello, Erik," he nodded a greeting. "Hello, Mélodie. What can I do for you folks today?"

"We were just in town to drop some of my work by the post office," Erik explained. "Mélodie wanted to stop by and look around."

"Do you have anything new?" she asked eagerly.

The shopkeeper's blue eyes twinkled. "As a matter of fact, I do. We just got a new shipment in on Tuesday." He pointed to the front left corner of the store. "Why don't you take a look over there?" He turned back to Erik. "I'm surprised to see you out this time of the week. If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were a recluse!"

Erik smiled. The man had no idea how close he was to the truth. "Yes, well, even a recluse must make a living."

The old man returned the smile. "I suppose that's true."

He was rather handsome for his age with a full head of thick silver hair and a well-groomed white handlebar mustache. Erik envied him sometimes. He would never age that gracefully.

"Your wife's performance last Sunday was astounding," he continued. "I think the entire congregation was speechless. She should be on stage, not hiding away in this little speck of a town! So should you, for that matter. You'd make a lot more money that way."

Erik winced. He often felt guilty for taking Christine away from the opera. He knew, though she would never openly admit it, that she missed her life on the stage. He had worked so hard to help her achieve her dream of becoming a star, and then—through his own selfish actions—he'd snatched it away. Thankfully, no one in this part of the country had ever heard of Christine Daaé.

"With all due respect, monsieur, my wife and I sing because we enjoy it, not because of the money."

"I understand, I understand." The old man smiled knowingly.

Erik nodded to a newspaper lying on the counter. An article on the front page had caught his attention. "Is that this morning's paper?"

"It is." He handed Erik the paper. "You can take it if you like. I've already read it. Not that there's much to read—births, deaths, a few upcoming weddings. Nothing too exciting. They're planning on replacing one of the stained-glass windows in the church—you know, the one that cracked after that hail storm last summer."

Erik skimmed the article. "So I've noticed. I wonder if they'd consider letting me design it?"

The man laughed. "So you're an artist as well as a singer?"

Erik smiled. "I am a man of many talents, Alphonse."

The shopkeeper shook his head. "Honestly, I think you'd learn more news listening in on one of my wife's quilting bees than you'll find in that paper. Gossip travels fast in a small town. Why, rumor has it, a gypsy circus is on its way to town! Can you believe that? Why on earth would they come all the way out here?"

Mélodie's ears perked up. Gypsies! Now that sounded exciting!

Erik stiffened.

Alphonse chuckled. "I take it you're not too fond of gypsies?"

Erik frowned. "I am not a prejudice man." He pointed to the mask. "With my condition, I can't afford to be. But I've met my fair share of gypsies, and in general, I have come to decide that they are not the sort of people with whom I'd like to associate."

Mélodie was curious. "When did you ever meet any gypsies, Papa?"

There was a distant look in his eyes. "A long time ago…when I was very young." He shook his head. He didn't wish to continue this conversation. "Have you found anything to your liking, Mélodie?"

"Yes." She walked over to the counter laid the book by the cash register.

"Ah," said the shopkeeper, "a good choice."

"How much is it?" she asked.

"Well, ordinarily I'd say five francs, but since you're such a good customer, why don't we just call it a gift?"

Erik protested. "You can't afford to just give away your merchandise."

"After you started giving my granddaughter singing lessons for free, it's the least I can do. We'd pay you, but her father's been too ill to work, and I don't have the money."

Erik reached for his wallet. "Which is why I'm not letting you give us that book." He laid the bills on the counter. "As I said before, I do what I do because I love it, not because of the money. Your granddaughter has an exquisite voice, and I'd be a fool not to train her. I would never stifle such a gift simply because you could not pay."

The old man sighed wistfully. "Her dream is to someday perform on stage, but what can the daughter of a farrier do?"

Erik smiled. He'd known another little girl from a poor family who'd done quite well on the stage. "You might be surprised."

As they headed out the door, Erik breathed a sigh of relief. The older she got, the more questions Mélodie began to ask about his past. He'd hoped to keep her safe from that knowledge for as long as possible, and when she'd asked about the gypsies, he knew his answer had not been satisfactory. There would be more questions soon. Somehow he'd always managed to dodge questions regarding his life before Christine whenever they'd come up before. He should have known he couldn't keep her safe forever.

xxxx

The gypsy fair arrived in town the following Sunday, their colorful caravans clattering over the cobblestones with an ominous sound that Erik was all too familiar with. The moment he heard the hoof beats of the Arabian steeds, he tensed, and what was supposed to have been a nice family outing after church was quickly cut short. After hearing her husband recount his conversation with Erik in the bookstore, Madame Desmarias had insisted on repaying the musician for his kindness by inviting the Gérard family over for a meal. But Erik knew his daughter well enough to know that her curiosity would get the best of her if they lingered. Lunch with the Desmariases would have to wait.

Getting out of the carriage, Erik hurriedly made his way to the door, doing his best to stay as far away from the passing gypsies as possible. When Alphonse answered the door, he quickly explained that an urgent family matter had arisen and that they would, regrettably, have to take up their generous offer another day. The disappointed look on his friend's face was almost enough to make him change his mind, but a brief glance at one of the older decorative wagons suddenly made him catch his breath. The paint had been redone and a few minor changes had been made, but there was no question that he had seen this particular caravan before. He felt the blood drain from his face. These were the same gypsies who had paraded him around half of France as their big attraction; if they recognized him, the life he'd worked so hard to establish in this quiet little town would be over, and his entire family would have to pay the consequences.

"Erik?" Alphonse looked worried. "Are you feeling alright? You don't look well."

"Y-yes. I'm fine." In all honesty, he was feeling rather lightheaded. He had been expecting the gypsies, but he hadn't been counting on them being the particular band of gypsies who had made nearly eight years of his life a living hell. He stumbled through an apology. "I'm sorry. I just…"

But before he could finish the thought, a flicker of movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention, and he turned just in time to see Mélodie stepping out into the street.

"Mélodie! Get back in the carriage!"

"But, Papa, I—"

He grabbed her arm a bit more forcibly than he'd intended, practically dragging her back across the road. "No buts! Get back inside, _now_!"

She craned her neck to see around her father's form but did not resist the pull on her arm, the worry in his voice being enough to temporarily curb her interest in the strange sights and sounds coming from down the street.

"I just wanted a better look," she pouted.

Erik glanced nervously back over his shoulders. "Mélodie, _please_. Don't argue with me right now."

Closing the door, he sent Alphonse one last apologetic look before leaping into the driver's seat and turning the carriage toward home. Mélodie stared longingly out the window until the caravans grew too small to see.

xxxx

"Mama?" Mélodie poked at the vegetables on her plate. "Are you going to the craft bazaar tomorrow?"

Truthfully, she had little interest in whatever wares the locals would be selling, but she couldn't help but wonder what sort of items she might find for sale dangling from the caravan windows. Erik frowned. He knew where this conversation was headed. They had made it through nearly two days without the mention of the word "gypsy," and he'd been hoping the subject wouldn't come up again. The gypsies were rarely in one place for more than a week, and if they were lucky, by the time next Sunday rolled around, all the caravans would have vanished.

Christine glanced across the table at Erik's uncomfortable expression before she answered. "No, sweetheart. Not this week."

"Why not?"

Erik interjected. "Because the gypsies are in town."

"What do you have against the gypsies?"

"They're dangerous, Mélodie, and I don't want you anywhere near them."

Mélodie threw up her hands in exasperation. "Paris is too dangerous. The gypsies are too dangerous. What _isn't_ too dangerous for me to do?" She huffed angrily.

Erik closed his eyes and took a deep, calming breath, visibly fighting the urge to lose his temper. When he spoke, it was with such an air of finality and detached coldness that even Christine felt a bit intimidated.

"Mélodie, that's enough. We're not discussing this anymore. Now eat your dinner."

Christine shuddered inwardly. She hadn't heard him use _that_ tone of voice in a long time, and she knew better than to question it.

But Mélodie, it seemed, would have to learn the hard way.

xxxx

Erik's fingers slipped effortlessly over the piano keys. Head tilted back, eyes closed, he was all but lost to world around him. Right now there was nothing but the sound of his music and a soft and steady summer rain drumming on the roof. It was a perfect day for reading or sleeping or, in his case, composing, and aside from the notes he caressed from the keys, the house was silent, each member of the family having taken up their preferred activity for a rainy afternoon. Christine was asleep in the upstairs bedroom, having spent the morning cleaning house, and Mélodie had locked herself away in her room—likely either reading or writing another story. Erik was so wrapped up in his music that he failed to notice the soft padding of footsteps coming down the stairs, so when a gentle hand touched his shoulder, he nearly jumped. Erik opened his eyes, slightly concerned. Christine never disturbed one of his musical reveries unless it was something of great importance.

"Erik, have you seen Mélodie? She's not in her room."

"What?" he whispered.

"I just knocked on her door. She didn't answer."

"Perhaps she's just asleep," he suggested hopefully.

Christine looked at him skeptically. "You know she's a light sleeper."

"Did you look?"

She shook her head. "The door was locked."

They shared a worried glance before Erik leapt up from his position at the piano and tore up the stairs with Christine not far behind.

"Mélodie?" There was panic in his voice. "MÉLODIE?" His fists pounded on the door. "MÉLODIE, OPEN THIS DOOR RIGHT NOW!"

When there was no response, he kicked the door with all the force he could muster. There was the splintering of wood as the door burst open to reveal an empty room with an open window, the long white curtains billowing in the breeze as the rain poured in. Erik raced over to the window, leaning out as far as he could, looking for any sign of their daughter. It was a long way down, but not so far that she couldn't have safely made a jump to the ground.

"MÉLODIE?" he called into the storm. "MÉLODIE?" He pulled himself back inside and turned to Christine, the upper half of his body already soaked from the rain. "The carriage is still here. Maybe she hasn't left yet."

Christine nodded. "I'll go check the barn. You go get ready in case we need to leave."

Without waiting for a response, Christine flew down the steps and flung open the front door, not even bothering to close it behind her. Barefoot and wrapped in nothing but her nightgown and a bathrobe, she raced across the yard, stumbling a few times in the slick mud that squished between her toes and stained her robe a nasty shade of brown. When she reached the barn, she had to yell even hear herself over the rain on the tin roof. The storm was picking up, and Mélodie was nowhere to be found. And then she noticed that Toulouse was gone. Wrapping her muddied bathrobe tighter around her shoulders, she ran back toward the house, rain soaking through to her skin in mere seconds. She noticed Erik was already at the door, wearing his mask and wig and grave expression.

"Erik, one of the horses is missing!" she called to him as she ran. "She must already be in town!"

Erik cursed under his breath and nervously fingered the gun in his pocket. While his weapon of choice was either a sword or a rope, times were changing, and a gun was much easier to conceal and much more effective in certain situations. Christine noticed the weapon as she reached the door and suddenly looked up at him, a bit startled.

"You don't think you'll really need that, do you?"

"I hope not," he answered honestly, "but I'm taking it just in case."

Christine still seemed a bit uneasy. Although she didn't doubt Erik's ability to defend himself, she knew what he had once been capable of, and the thought that he might slip back into the mindset of a killer—even to protect their daughter—somewhat frightened her.

He sighed, taking her gently by the shoulders so that she was looking into his eyes. "I won't use it unless I have to," he reassured her.

Christine looked down but nodded reluctantly. She didn't like the idea of him using a weapon, but she understood the need for self-defense. "I'll go change."

"No, Christine. I need you to stay here." He could tell that she was about to protest, but he cut her off before she had the chance. "Please," he whispered. "Christine, I need to know that at least _one_ of you is safe. Besides," he continued, "the carriage is too large for one horse to pull. I'll have to ride. It'll be faster that way anyway."

Christine looked as though she was about to cry. Erik had warned her about his familiarity with this particular group of gypsies, and the realization that not one but _both_ members of her family would be in danger while she was safe at home was more than she could bear. Nevertheless, his arguments made sense; she doubted that she would actually be able to be much help against a band of angry gypsies—if anything, she would just be another person for Erik to worry about protecting.

Erik wrapped his arms around her, not caring that the mud on her clothes was likely staining his shirt. "I'll bring her home," he promised.

At last, he pulled back, and Christine couldn't help but pull him in for one last kiss. She brought her hand to the exposed side of his face, stroking it lovingly. "Be safe," she whispered.

"I will."

Christine stood in the doorway and watched as Erik retrieved César from the barn and rode off into the storm. She couldn't tell if the water droplets on her face were from the rain or from her tears.


	8. The Gypsy Circus

**Chapter Seven: The Gypsy Circus**

Mélodie and Toulouse galloped through the rain at breakneck speed, alternately splashing through the puddles and leaping over them as they saw fit. Mélodie was having the time of her life, and Toulouse seemed to be enjoying himself as well, bucking playfully and running at full speed with barely a touch from her heels. Mélodie couldn't help but laugh and hang on for dear life! Her clothes were drenched, her hair was a wet and tangled mess, and she had never felt so alive!

If only she could feel the rain on _both_ sides of her face, she sighed. _If only I didn't have to wear this stupid mask!_ It seemed rather ironic, she reflected, that while she was deliberately breaking her father's rule about the gypsies she was still faithfully obeying his rule about the mask. She had actually considered leaving it behind, but for some reason that she still didn't fully understand, she had opted to wear it. Perhaps it was out of fear. Perhaps it was out of respect. Or perhaps it was simply out of habit. She still didn't really know.

But soon they arrived in town, and whatever thoughts she might have had about removing the mask suddenly vanished as she realized that nearly everyone from the surrounding area—including many people from neighboring towns—had come out to see the gypsy circus! The usually quiet streets of the town were packed with vendors—some associated with the weekly craft bazaar, others from the gypsy camp—perched under makeshift tents and awnings. The rain, which was beginning to slow to a light drizzle, seemed to have little effect on their sales. The circus rarely came out this far, and few were willing to miss it—rain or no rain!

Stopping in front of the church, Mélodie leapt down off of Toulouse and tethered him to the wooden fence, giving him a handful of soggy sugar cubes for his time, which he happily slurped up in a matter of seconds. She gave him a quick pat on the neck, then turned to look up and down the streets, trying to decide where to go first. There were so many bright and colorful caravans! So many new delicious and exotic smells! There were necklaces with strange charms for sale and magnificent skirts and dresses that revealed so much skin that they would surely make Father Martin blush. And then she saw it.

There, in the very center of the town square, was a large striped tent that seemed to be the one location that _everyone_ was flocking to. _Whatever is inside_, she reasoned, _it surely must be something grand! _

Curious, she pushed her way through the crowd and, lifting a tent flap to the side, entered into what could only be described as a world of wonders. There were exotic animals of every kind—creatures she had only ever read about before—brightly colored birds that could talk, monkeys dressed in little suits, even a lion that could jump through flaming hoops! The king of beasts was even more impressive in person than she'd imagined, and she gasped in fear and delight when he suddenly roared on cue.

Then there were the human attractions. In one corner of the tent, acrobats were cutting flips like dolphins, in another a contortionist was twisting her body in all kinds of strange ways that both impressed and disturbed the audience. There were scantily clad dancers who winked at passing men and a fire-breathing man who spewed flames nearly three feet long! There was even a man who had somehow managed to swallow a sword! When she was younger, her father had often entertained her with his own magic tricks and sleight of hand, but he had never revealed his secrets or how he had learned them. Watching the performers now, she couldn't help but wonder if perhaps he had picked up some of his knowledge from these oddly enticing people.

_But if that's the case, why would he hate them so much? It doesn't make sense! They don't seem dangerous to me. _

How exactly _did_ her father know the gypsies, she wondered? Had he been a performer? If so, he had likely seen a lot more of the world than he'd ever let on—more of the world than she would ever see!

Being the storyteller that she was, Mélodie suddenly began to conjure up all sorts of possible explanations for how her father had come to be in the circus and what he might have done and seen. She imagined him as a young man singing for the crowds, a thousand smiling faces cheering him on, the audience erupting with applause! She imagined him playing strange instruments from foreign lands, perhaps charming a snake or charming a beautiful woman. She imagined him dressed in silk robes and a more decorative mask, making things disappear and reappear, throwing his voice and mimicking others', leaving the audience utterly dumbfounded. He would have traveled through most of Europe—maybe even Russia!—maybe even Persia!

She shook her head suddenly. No, maybe not Persia. That was getting a bit far-fetched. [1]

If only she had known how very close and yet so very far from the truth that she was, she might not have been so quick to fall in love with the circus atmosphere. If she had known the truth, she might not have been so absorbed in the show that she wandered into one of the gypsies' private quarters…in which case, she might not have been recognized and invited to join the brother and sisterhood of the gypsies…in which case, she never would have had the opportunity to say yes.

But she didn't know the truth. And so, with her head full of fantasies of what such a life would be like, she signed her name on the contract without a second thought.

xxxx

By the time he reached town, Erik was soaked to the bone, and César's coat was slick with rain, sweat, and mud. The moment the little church came into view, Erik breathed a sigh of relief. If Toulouse was still tethered to the fencepost, then Mélodie was probably nearby—though finding her in the mass of people crammed into the town square was going to be a bit tricky. Erik brought César to a screeching halt, leaping off the horse's back before he had even fully stopped. He almost didn't bother to tie his mount; he'd known César long enough to know that he could trust him not to wander off. But today the gypsies were in town.

Erik took a deep breath. This was going to be difficult. The sights and sounds that suddenly surrounded him took him to another time and another place. He'd been much younger then—hardly more than a child—but no matter how many years had passed, he could never forget what it had been like to look at the world from behind bars with nothing more than a filthy burlap sack to cover his face and little more to cover his body. The physical pain he'd endured had been horrible, to be sure, but it was the emotional scars—the humiliation of having his flaws exposed for all the world to see—that had left a more lasting impression. For all of his rush to get there, he found that he had suddenly become immobile, rooted to the spot by the paralyzing fear of having to relive all of those memories. He felt sick again—so horribly sick that he ended up on his knees vomiting into some of the neatly trimmed bushes that bordered the churchyard. Still gagging, he flushed with embarrassment at his current predicament and at his sudden cowardice. He wanted to run. He wanted to hide. He wanted to curl up in a little ball somewhere in a deep, dark hole far away from here—somewhere safe.

But then, he remembered his daughter. He remembered the moment he'd learned he was a father. He remembered the crushing guilt of realizing she had inherited his curse and the overwhelming joy he'd felt the first time he took her in his arms. He remembered a five year-old girl with messy blonde curls, her pudgy little hand wrapped around two of his gloved fingers. He remembered all the reasons why he had come to town today—riding at breakneck speed through a torrential downpour—and he suddenly regained his courage.

Picking himself up off the ground, he dusted off his knees and started toward the circus tent. If he was lucky, she was still wandering around amid the crowd. He walked with purpose now, stopping only to ask a few neighbors and friends if they had happened to see her pass by. But they all shook their heads and shrugged. No one had seen a little masked face wandering about today. They were all too busy trying to get a peek at the many attractions or fight their way through the crowd to have noticed. They'd apologize and tell him they would keep their eyes open, and he would thank them kindly and move on. But inside, he was seething with rage. How dare these people he had come to call his friends clamor to the very circus in which he'd once been on display? Would they have come if they knew the terrible truth of what went on behind closed doors when the lights went out and the audience had left? Would they have come if they knew that the human oddities who were often in the acts frequently did not come of their own free will? And then, a terrible thought crossed his mind—what if some of _them_ had seen the Devil's Child? Most of the townspeople were at least as old as he was, if not older, so it was possible that they had seen the traveling circus as children…. He shuddered. If they knew about his past—if they remembered having actually seen his face and not just the mask which they'd become accustomed to—would they ever view him the same way again?

As he drew nearer to the festivities, he noticed a brief flicker of movement in one of the cages back behind the main tent. Curious, he approached—cautiously at first, in case anyone happened to be watching. Whoever or whatever was in this cage, they weren't intended to be out on display. He peered around the corner, both relieved and somewhat disappointed to see not his daughter but a large male lion squeezed into the incredibly small space behind the bars. If he hadn't already thrown up, the stench coming from the cage would have been enough to trigger it. He knew that smell all too well—urine and feces and the moldy remains of what little food had been tossed into the cage, most of which was unfit for actual consumption. The lion snarled, pressing himself farther against the back of the cage before lunging suddenly with a ferocious roar. But while most would have regarded the yellow eyes as burning with the savage bloodlust of an enraged predator, Erik saw other emotions—the fear of a mighty hunter reduced to a cheap sideshow and the hopelessness of a fallen king who has lost not only his crown but his freedom and his dignity. And for a moment, green eyes met gold in silent understanding. But then the lion lunged again, swiping a paw out between the bars that nearly missed his chest. Erik sighed and shook his head. This lion would never trust another human being again—and he couldn't honestly say that he blamed him.

"Hey!" A sudden voice from behind interrupted his thoughts. "Hey! You can't be back here!"

His blood ran cold. _I know that voice. _

Erik whirled around to face the intruder, glaring at the man from behind the white porcelain of his mask. The man was older now—grayer—the smooth olive skin of his forehead wrinkled with age. But Erik would have recognized this man anywhere. He did not know the man's name, but he knew instantly that he had been among the gypsies who had once tortured him.

The man's face paled. "You…" he whispered.

Erik smirked. "Surprised to see me?" He frowned again, taking a step toward the cowering gypsy. "You shouldn't be. I believe that you may have stolen something—or rather _someone_—of great value to me."

He was circling the man, like a cat about to pounce on its prey, pushing him closer and closer toward the solid wall of the lion's cage.

"Tell me," he continued, "have you seen my daughter?"

"Y-your daughter?"

"Yes. I'm certain you would know her if you saw her. You see, there is a certain…family resemblance." He slammed the man against the wall. "WHERE IS SHE?" he roared.

"I-I have not seen her!" The man's eyes were wide with fear.

Erik's hand automatically went to the man's throat, tightening in a vice-like grip. "Are you sure?"

"I know nothing!" the man choked. "Honest!"

Erik hesitated. Now was his chance to get his revenge. The man was helpless in his grasp. Just a little tighter and he'd be dead before he even had the chance to scream. But this man was telling the truth. If the gypsies had taken Mélodie, he seemed not to have been a part of it. And if he killed an unarmed man, did that not make him just as cruel and merciless as they had been to torment an innocent child? He had a family to think about now, and his actions would affect them all. Slowly, he loosened his grip and turned to leave.

"Wait!" the man called. "Y-you're not going to kill me?"

Erik stopped short in his path but didn't bother to turn around. "You're not worth it," he spat.

And then, he continued walking as if nothing had happened while the man stood dumbfounded. Erik smiled in spite of himself. He wondered how long it would be before the man noticed that his keys were missing.

xxxx

After what seemed like hours of snooping around the various cages and repeatedly peeking into the main tent with no luck, Erik was beginning to become rather frustrated. If she wasn't in one of the cages, and she wasn't out in the audience, where in the world was she? The storm had picked up again, and he felt rather foolish wandering around in the rain when nearly everyone else had packed themselves into the tent, yet he dared not reveal himself. He was beginning to think that he might have overreacted in his fear for Mélodie's safety and that he had simply missed her somewhere among the people in the crowd when a sudden flash of lightning lit up the sky, illuminating one of the smaller tents attached to the main arena and revealing the silhouette of a young girl tied to a chair.

Without a moment's hesitation, he burst into the tent, knocking the guard over with a feral roar and pinning him to the ground. Before the man even had time to react, Erik's fist was colliding with his jaw. He was seeing red now, losing control. He hadn't felt such rage in ages, and the power of holding another man's life in his hands suddenly felt very tempting. The only thing stopping him from killing the man outright was the thought of Mélodie's reaction to seeing her father take a life. That was one side of himself he'd vowed to never let her see.

Having knocked the man sufficiently senseless, he leapt to his feet and ran over to the chair where Mélodie sat, bound and gagged, unmasked, and looking very frightened. She had seen her father lose his temper before, but never like this! Erik quickly removed the gag and began untying her hands.

"Mélodie, are you alright? Did they hurt you?" He wanted to scold her, but right now he had more important things to worry about. Whatever lecturing he was going to do could wait until later.

She nodded numbly. "I'm fine," she squeaked.

But the bruising on her arms told a different story. Erik cursed under his breath. Whoever did this would pay dearly.

Just as he finished freeing her wrists, the man on the floor began to stir. He hurried to undo the bonds on her legs, fingers fumbling in his haste. He wished now more than ever that he'd brought a knife. At long last, the ropes came loose, and Mélodie immediately ran over to a bag in the corner, snatching up her mask and replacing it on her face. Erik took his daughter by the shoulders so that he was looking her in the eyes.

"Mélodie, I want you to run," he panted. "Run and don't stop. Don't stop for me. Don't stop for anything, you hear me?"

She nodded.

"Good. Now, go! I'll be right behind you."

The moment she was out the door, Erik grabbed the rope that had been used to bind his daughter and quickly tied the hands and feet of the unconscious guard. For a brief second, he considered doing something a bit more sinister with the rope but decided it was against his better judgment and instead settled for a rather unceremonious kick in the side. But just as he was turning to leave, he heard a sinister voice from behind.

"So, the Devil's Child has returned."

Erik whirled to face the man, drawing his pistol, but his face fell when he noticed not one but _two_ intruders, each latched on to one of Mélodie's arms. One had a knife to her throat.

"Drop your weapon, or the girl dies!"

Erik hesitated, his hand shaking. "You won't kill her," he risked. "She's too valuable to you."

"Perhaps…But do you really want to risk that?" The man ran the flat edge of the blade against her exposed cheek. "You know, it would be a shame to ruin the _other _side of her face as well."

Mélodie whimpered as the man put pressure on the knife until it bit into her skin, leaving a small trickle of blood down her cheek.

"DROP IT!"

Erik reluctantly tossed the weapon to the floor, raising his hands in defeat. "Do whatever you like with me," he growled, "but leave my family out of this."

"She signed a contract. Legally she is ours."

Erik closed his eyes. "I'll take her place."

The men at the door laughed.

"And why should we not keep you both? You were, after all, one of our biggest attractions." The man paused. "I do have to wonder, though, how there came to be a_ second _Devil's Child…considering your own parents didn't even want you." He grinned wickedly, milk-white teeth in glaring contrast with his almond-colored skin. "You must have paid her _handsomely_."

Erik lunged, taking the men by surprise and giving Mélodie just enough time to wriggle free from their grip. He wrenched the blade from his opponent's hand with surprising speed and, within seconds, had it at his throat. But the second man was coming up from behind. Mélodie screamed as the chair she'd been tied to came down on his head with a sickening crack. Erik fell to the ground, dazed but still conscious. Beneath the mask, he felt a trickle of blood dripping down his face. He tried to stand, only to take another blow to the side. A shockwave of pain told him he'd likely broken a few ribs.

"Mélodie, GO!" he yelled.

But she hesitated, and it gave the second attacker just enough time to drop the chair and grab her by the arm. Meanwhile, the other man had somehow regained his weapon, and Erik, having stumbled to his feet, was locked in combat, each wrist of the attacker wrapped firmly in his grip. He was doing his best to keep the man's arms as far apart as possible and to keep the blade away from his body, but the gypsy was surprisingly strong—a near equal match—and neither appeared to be winning. But the blow from the chair had made Erik rather dizzy and disoriented, and he suddenly stumbled backwards into the tent wall adjoining the main circus arena, causing them both to fall, the gypsy man's knife rending the canvas on their way down and sending them tumbling into the arena.

Everyone in the tent suddenly froze. The dancers stopped dancing. The fortune-tellers stopped talking. The fire-breathers stopped breathing. And the audience fell into a hushed silence.

Erik's opponent was the first to move. Clearing his throat and straightening his stance, he addressed the people of the town.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it would seem we have a special surprise for you today! Some of you may remember the 'Devil's Child.'"

A whisper ran through the crowd. By the looks on their faces, at least half of the audience had seen or heard of the Devil's Child before. From his place on the ground, Erik groaned. But at the moment he was in too much physical pain and too much emotional stress to move. He knew what was coming, but he didn't feel like fighting anymore.

"Yes! The Devil's Child—said to have once killed a man just by showing him his horrid face! Many years ago, he killed one of our own and disappeared before we could catch him—but tonight, he has returned!"

There was an uproar in the audience. Surely the man who had been their neighbor for so many years was not a murderer!

"Ahh…" the gypsy continued, "I see that some of you doubt. Perhaps you do not know him as well as you may think! I know for certain that this man is the one who murdered my brother because as you will see, his face is rather hard to forget! See for yourself!" Putting a foot on Erik's chest, he ripped the mask from his face. "Behold! The Devil's Child!"

Erik's hands flew to his face as a chorus of gasps and shrieks passed in waves over the assembly. This was a nightmare—no, worse than a nightmare! His breathing was erratic, panicked, his broken ribs protesting in agonizing waves of pain with every sharp intake of breath. Tears of anger and humiliation stung the back of his eyes, but he dared not let them fall. To be exposed before a crowd of strangers would have been bad enough, but these were his supposed friends! And what was worse, his daughter was watching—watching as he cringed in the dust like a coward at the feet of the man who had kidnapped her. Everything he'd worked for these past seventeen years—every friend he'd made, every bit of their trust he'd gained, every ounce of respect he had earned—seemed to have suddenly shattered in a mere matter of moments. It had all been a lie. And now they knew the truth.

The gypsy man kicked him in the ribs, enjoying the howl of pain that erupted from Erik's lips. "Get up! Get up and show your face, you coward!"

"ENOUGH!"

Erik peered through his fingers to see which of the townspeople had defended him, exceedingly grateful to whoever it was. But the dark-haired, olive-skinned woman who now stood over him was not one of his acquaintances, but rather, one of the gypsies!

The woman turned to the gypsy man who had been assaulting him and said something in their own language that sounded like a rather heated reprimand. It had been a long time since he'd heard the Romani language, but Erik caught a few words that he recognized. When he heard the word "daughter" enter the conversation, he noticed the man produce a signed document—apparently the contract Mélodie had signed—only to have it ripped to shreds and thrown back in his face.

She then addressed the crowd. "And as for you all," she glared, "you ought to be ashamed of yourselves."

A few members of the audience looked down shamefully.

"Go on, now! Go!" She shooed them away with her hands. "You can come back tomorrow. You've seen enough for today." She glared at the man who still had a grip on Mélodie's arm. "You too!"

Reluctantly, he released her.

As the crowd began to disperse, he watched her kneel to retrieve the mask. She held it out to him hesitantly. Concern sparkled in her vibrant blue eyes.

"Are you alright?"

Erik took the mask gratefully, turning away briefly as he replaced it. "I'm fine." He turned back to face her. "Thank you," he breathed, "but why did you—"

The woman smiled sadly as she stood. "You don't remember me, do you, Erik?"

Erik was taken aback. How had this woman known his name? None of the gypsies had ever bothered to learn his name except….

"When you were with us as a child," she offered, "there was a little girl who would sometimes sneak out at night and—"

"And brought me extra food," he finished for her. He looked up, green eyes meeting blue in recognition for the first time in over thirty years. He could never forget those eyes. His one visible eyebrow raised in surprise. "Sapphira?"

She smiled warmly and did a mock curtsey, her red dress sweeping the ground. "At your service." [2]

Erik was beginning to smile now, too. It was hard to imagine how the chubby six year-old he remembered had turned into the beautiful woman who stood before him, her curves having smoothed out in all the right places.

"You've grown up a bit since the last time I saw you."

She laughed. "So have you."

Erik would have laughed, too, if not for the broken ribs. He winced, suddenly grasping at his side.

Sapphira bit her lip.

"It's nothing," he assured her. It hurt, of course, but he'd been through much worse.

She moved to help him up. "Can you stand?"

In response, he got to his feet. It was a bit of a dizzying experience, but he managed to stay upright.

"Come," she said, "I think you should rest a bit before you go anywhere."

As they turned, Erik glanced back over his shoulder. "Mélodie?"

Mélodie dropped her eyes in guilt but followed obediently.

They exited through a back door of the tent and made their way toward a smaller purple tent off to the side. The rain had finally let up, but the wet grass was slick under Sapphira's bare feet.

"So you are a father now?" she asked. "Your daughter is very beautiful."

Had it been anyone else—aside from Christine or Antoinette—he would have doubted their sincerity, but there was no hint of sarcasm in her eyes. He knew, of course, that she meant "beautiful" in the sense that she _would_ have been beautiful if not for inheriting his face, but he mentally thanked her for not saying so out loud.

"She looks a lot like her mother."

As they entered the tent, Sapphira pulled out a chair from in front of her vanity and gestured for him to take a seat, which he did with hesitancy, careful to avoid looking in the mirror. Even with the mask on, he didn't want to know what he looked like right now. Mélodie stood awkwardly in the corner, observing the gypsy woman with cautious interest.

Sapphira suddenly reached for the mask, and Erik's hand instinctively shot up, grabbing her wrist. She looked up, a bit startled.

"I…I was just going to clean your wound," she explained.

Erik released his grip, feeling somewhat embarrassed. "Sorry," he apologized. "Habit."

He allowed her to slip her fingers underneath the porcelain, nervously awaiting her reaction. Christine was usually the only one allowed to take it off. But Sapphira didn't flinch, and proceeded to dip a rag she had snatched off the vanity into a bucket of water on the floor as if nothing had happened. Erik reluctantly removed the wig.

Sapphira grinned. "I thought your hair looked darker." She wrung the excess water from the rag. "I like it better this way, though. You look more like yourself." She frowned as she began to wipe away the blood. The wound wasn't bad enough to need stitches, but it had bled a lot. "I'm sorry you had to go through all of that. If I had known earlier…." She shook her head.

"How_ did_ you convince them to stop, anyway?" Erik wondered aloud.

Sapphira looked down, playing absentmindedly with the multicolored beads on her necklace. "The man you killed the night of your escape…your…_owner_," she said with disgust, "…he was my father."

Erik closed his eyes, feeling suddenly very guilty. Of all the lives he'd taken, he'd always considered the circus master to be the most justified, but now, seeing things in a new light—knowing that he had killed the father of his only friend among the entire gypsy camp, possibly in front of her innocent six-year-old eyes, was a devastating blow.

"Sapphira, I…"

She held up a hand. "Don't apologize. You did what anyone else would have done." She sighed and began cleaning the wound again. "The truth is, my mother and I—we were probably better off without him. He was a difficult man to live with—a drinker, a gambler—he was always getting into fights. We knew he had it coming sooner or later….You just happened to be the one to get to him first." She sighed again, shaking her head. "So…what have you been doing all this time? Where did you go when you escaped?"

Erik breathed a sigh of relief, thankful for the change in subject. "There was a girl from the Opera House Corps de Ballet who helped me get away." His gaze flickered over to Mélodie, fully aware that she was hanging on his every word. He didn't want to say too much. "She found a place for me to stay and eventually, after she became the ballet mistress, introduced me to one of the chorus girls—Christine."

He said the name with such reverence that Sapphira hardly had to guess at who she was. "Your wife?" she asked.

"Yes. I became her vocal instructor—a private tutor of sorts—and eventually fell in love with her." He hesitated. "She didn't return the feelings right away…Not so much because of my face but because I…I let my temper and my stubbornness get the best of me, and I think it frightened her."

He paused momentarily. It was a fairly decent summary of what had happened, he supposed. Admittedly, it was a highly abridged version of the truth, omitting many of the more gory details he'd rather Mélodie not know, but it was the truth, nonetheless.

He smiled, satisfied with his conclusion. "But we've been married seventeen years now, and I couldn't be happier."

Sapphira returned the smile. "Then I am happy _for_ you."

"What about you? Where have you been?"

The gypsy woman shrugged. "Oh, you know, here and there—Paris, Bordeaux, Amiens—nearly every city in France. We spent a little time in Germany and Italy as well. Gypsies never stay in one place for too long, you know."

Mélodie, who had remained silent for the majority of the conversation, suddenly had to know more. "You've been to all of those places?" she blurted out.

Sapphira laughed softly. "It's not as much fun as you might think. Traveling is nice, but it gets old after awhile. You can only do the same tricks so many times without losing interest."

Erik frowned. "If you are unhappy, then why not leave?"

She sighed. "Erik, these people—I know they have not been kind to you, but they are my family. This is the only life I have ever known. I wouldn't know how to survive in the real world." She tossed the bloodied rag back into the bucket of water, having finished cleaning the wound. "Besides, no upstanding Frenchman would hire a gypsy. And anyway," she winked, "somebody has to keep an eye on all of these troublemakers."

While replacing his wig and mask, Erik noticed Mélodie admiring a piece of jewelry that was dangling from a peg on what appeared to be a coat rack. It was a simple leather cord with a large crystal stone tied to it, but the girl was unquestionably intrigued by it. "Don't touch that, Mélodie! It isn't yours."

She looked down at her shoes. "I was just looking."

Sapphira shrugged. "She can have it if she wants."

Mélodie's eyes widened. "Really?"

Sapphira smiled. "If you promise to take care of it."

Mélodie nodded eagerly. "I will."

The gypsy woman removed the necklace from its peg and draped it over the girl's head. "Good. Because this amulet is very special. It is said to bring good luck…" She glanced back at Erik, who was wearing a stern "we'll discuss this later" expression, and laughed. "…which I'm guessing you're going to need a lot of."

Mélodie ducked her head sheepishly.

Erik stood. "Sapphira, I can't thank you enough, but I think we should be going soon. Christine will be getting worried. I'd say it would be nice to see you again, but given the situation…."

The gypsy smiled again. "I'll understand if you don't come back tomorrow. It was good to see you, though I wish it could have been under better circumstances. We'll be leaving on Friday, so you shouldn't have to worry too much longer."

"If you're ever visiting the area again…"

"I'll know where to find you."

xxxx

As soon as they were out of earshot, Erik resumed a serious expression, and Mélodie knew she was in trouble. Thankfully, most of the crowd had dispersed, and for a few moments they walked in silence, Erik mulling over the events of the day and Mélodie mentally preparing herself for the harsh lecture that she knew was inevitable. When Erik finally spoke, his voice was eerily calm, but there were dangerous undertones running just beneath the surface.

"Mélodie, you deliberately disobeyed me. Do you realize what kind of danger you put yourself in? What kind of danger you put us _all_ in?"

She kicked at a clump of wet grass. Though she knew she was fighting a losing battle, she was just as stubborn as her father, and she refused to give up without a fight.

"I just wanted to have some fun. You never let me do anything!" she complained.

Erik sighed. "Mélodie, I am trying to keep you safe. The world is a dangerous place. I just don't want to see you get hurt."

"I wouldn't have signed that paper if I'd known what they were planning."

Erik's anger was rising. "You _shouldn't_ have been in town at all! How could you be so foolish as to sign your life away with people you'd never even met—people I expressly forbade you to see!"

"The gypsies said—"

"I DON'T CARE WHAT THE GYPSIES SAID!" he roared. "They obviously lied!"

"And you didn't? Up until a few days ago, I never knew you'd even _seen_ a gypsy, let alone lived with them! What else haven't you told me?"

Erik ignored her attempt to force the blame on him. "They were going to put you in a cage, Mélodie—_a cage!_ Is that what you wanted?"

"I'm already living in one!" she shouted. "Papa, I'm thirteen years old, and I've never been more than five miles from the house! And if it wasn't for Mother and I, I don't think you'd leave the house at all! You might as well put bars on the windows!"

"Keep talking like that, and maybe I'll consider it," he growled.

Angry tears were threatening to spill over her lashes, but she refused to cry in front of her father. "Just because _you're_ afraid of the world doesn't mean that _I_ am! And I will not spend the rest of my life locked up in that cage of a house because you were too afraid to let me out!"

Erik clenched his fists, his jaw set squarely, his lips in a firm line. "Cage or not, it is for your protection, and if you _ever_ leave the house again without my permission, I will burn every single one of those stories you've ever written."

He knew she would hate him for it—knew it before the words were even out of his mouth. But he also knew that such a threat would be effective. It would be the equivalent of someone threatening to destroy all of his musical compositions, and no matter how much it might kill him to do it, he _would_ follow through with his plan if meant keeping her out of harm's way.

Mélodie's eyes went wide in horror. She didn't have to ask how he knew where she'd hidden them. She'd been convinced a long time ago that he had the ability to read minds. And if he didn't already know where they were, she knew he wouldn't hesitate to tear the house apart until he found them.

"B-But that's not fair!" Her voice cracked.

Erik glared down from where he'd repositioned himself on top of César. "Life isn't always fair."

He offered her a hand up onto Toulouse, but she blatantly ignored it, using the fence to give herself a boost instead and kicking the horse into a full run before he had the chance to say anything more. Erik sighed as he nudged César into a faster gait. They would have to hurry if they wanted to catch up with her. If she got home first, there was no telling what sort of story she might regale to Christine—likely one in which _he _was the villain. And former Opera Ghost or not, he knew by now that an angry Christine was not something he wanted to deal with.

xxxx

Christine had been pacing the floor for hours. Ever since Erik had left, she'd been trying to find different ways to stay busy. She re-dusted the entire house—even though she'd just cleaned everything earlier that morning. She arranged and then rearranged the furniture in the bedroom. She cleaned all the dishes in the kitchen. She organized Erik's music—first chronologically, then alphabetically by title. And she'd cooked enough soup to last almost a week. Finally, when she'd run out of things to do, she'd gone back to pacing. It was starting to get dark outside, and she was seriously beginning to worry.

When the door finally burst open, she bolted. It took her less than two seconds to cross the room, nearly knocking Mélodie off her feet as she swept her into a hug.

"Oh, Mélodie, you're alright! Thank God!"

She ran to Erik, practically throwing her arms around him. He sucked in a sharp breath at the pain in his ribs but said nothing. And Christine was so glad to see him alive that she didn't seem to notice.

"I was so worried, and when you didn't come back after a few hours, I thought…" She shook her head, pressing herself further against him. "I'm just so glad you're both alright."

The pain was nearly unbearable, but he didn't have the heart to push her away.

Christine turned back to her daughter. "Mélodie, what on earth were you think— Mélodie?"

But Mélodie was already up the stairs and in her room, slamming the broken door behind her. Christine sighed and looked back at Erik. "I take it your conversation with her didn't go over well?"

"Mmmh," Erik grunted.

She took his arm gently and led him over to the table. "Come get something to eat. You haven't had anything since breakfast." She frowned suddenly, noticing a small splotch of red peeking out from the edge of the wig just above where the mask met his false hairline. "What happened to—"

"Nothing."

"Erik, you're bleeding." She started to reach for the mask.

"I said it's nothing!" he snapped.

She slowly returned the hand to her side, looking more hurt than afraid.

Erik sighed. "I'm sorry, Christine. It's been a hard day. I think I'm going to go up to bed now, alright?"

"Alright," she whispered. There were tears glistening in her eyes, but she forced a smile. "Good night."

She watched him retreat up the stairs, disappearing around the corner without ever returning her "good night." She waited until she heard the click of the bedroom door before turning around and walking sullenly back to the kitchen. The soup had been sitting out for almost an hour now and was only lukewarm, but she didn't bother to reheat it. She poured herself a bowl and sat down at the unnaturally empty table. Sipping a spoonful, she sighed. Somehow it didn't taste quite as good as it usually did.

[1] Oh, the irony! As many of you know, in the Leroux & Kay version of the story, Erik does actually go to Persia for quite some time. However, since my story is based off of the 2004 movie, it is supposed that the only life he has ever known outside of the gypsy circus is the Paris Opera House. Nevertheless, it is possible, I suppose, that he could have gone to Persia at some point with the gypsy circus). But since this story is really more about Erik's life _after_ the Opera House (not his past), I'll leave this one up to the reader to decide. :)

[2] Sapphira is basically modeled after Esmeralda in Disney's _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_. The only real difference is their eye color. Esmeralda has green eyes while Sapphira has blue. (Esmeralda = emerald and Sapphira = sapphire…Very original, I know. :P)


	9. A Father's Advice

**Chapter Eight: A Father's Advice**

It was late by the time Christine went to bed. Erik had been asleep for several hours, though from the tangled sheets and his fitful tossing and turning, she guessed that it had not been a very peaceful sleep. She bit her lip as she crawled underneath the covers, wondering whether she should try to wake him. In the years since their marriage, his recurring nightmares had slowly faded away until they were practically nonexistent. Every once in awhile, he would still wake up with a start, wide-eyed and breathing heavily, heart pounding from an encounter with some imaginary ghost from his past. But tonight, something was different. He seemed more desperate, more frightened, than she'd seen him act in years. This dream was too real, too urgent. He whimpered softly, curling into the fetal position and cowering like a dog afraid of being kicked by its master. Since their discussion of the day had been very brief, she didn't know exactly what had triggered such a response, but she was beginning to get a pretty good idea of why he hadn't wanted to discuss his injury.

She was hesitant to touch his arm. She never knew quite what to expect when he was so deeply wrapped within his dreams, so she usually refrained from waking him and let the dream simply run its course. But she hated to see him in such distress. She shook his shoulder lightly.

"Erik," she called softly. "Erik, honey, wake up."

She had been expecting a sudden jolt of movement as he sat up or a sudden wave of panic as he tried to shake off the dream. She had expected him to grab her arm or back himself up against the bedpost, hiding his face until he separated dream from reality. What she had not been expecting was the way he violently grabbed her by the throat, still fully asleep and completely unaware of his actions. Christine's eyes widened as she gasped for breath. In all their years of marriage, she had never once feared her husband. He had startled her once or twice, for sure, but never for a moment had she thought that he would harm her. Until now.

She knew now what it was like to be on the receiving end of his wrath. Was this the last thing Piangi and Buquet had ever felt, the fingers of death wrapped around their throats, merciless and cold?

"Erik," she choked out. "Erik, please. You're hurting me!"

But the pressure on her windpipe didn't let up, and the edges of her vision were becoming hazy. Of course, she knew he didn't mean it. If she died this night, she would never blame him—but Mélodie wouldn't understand, and Erik would hate himself for the rest of his life. She couldn't let that happen. She vaguely recalled him wincing earlier in her embrace. If she had to, she could use that to her advantage. She tried one last time to rouse him gracefully, and then, mentally apologizing, rammed her knee into his ribs as hard as she could.

Erik woke with a start, the immense pain radiating out from his side in waves so strong it nearly knocked the breath out of him. Immediately, his grip slackened, but it wasn't until he looked up to see his fingers curled around Christine's perfect porcelain neck—her eyes wide in horror, her lips nearly blue—that he fully understood what had happened. Instantly, he withdrew his hand, as if he had touched a firebrand with his bare skin, and Christine coughed and sputtered until at last she could breathe again.

Erik turned away ashamedly, looking down at his hands as if they were suddenly covered in blood, clenching and unclenching his fists in an almost mechanical motion. Christine didn't have to see his eyes to know that they were filled with regret and self-loathing.

"Erik." She felt his shoulders tense under her soft touch. "Erik, you were dreaming. You didn't know."

His only response was a shudder that passed through his body.

Christine scooted closer, brushing a strand of hair out of his eyes, which were deliberately squeezed shut, as if he was still in physical pain. "Do you want to talk about it?"

He shook his head, never once opening his eyes, but somehow a few tears still managed to escape. He brushed them away, irritably, and throwing off what little cover he hadn't kicked off, stood, clutching one of the bedposts as if to steady himself.

Christine looked up worriedly. "Where are you going?"

He couldn't bring himself to turn around but somehow was able to find his voice. "Downstairs."

He walked over to the door, and she knew he was headed for the piano. She got back out of the bed and put herself between her husband and the door.

"Erik, it's after midnight." Christine tried to reason with him. "If you play now, you'll wake Mélodie. Come back to bed, and we can talk about it in the morning."

"Christine, I need my music now." It was like a drug to him, a calming medicine that cleansed his mind and soul.

"What you _need_ is some rest. You've had a rough day, and tomorrow won't be any better if you're running off of two hours of sleep. Now come back to bed."

"Christine, you don't understand…"

"Maybe I would if you would just tell me what's going on."

He was becoming irritated. "_Christine, please move_."

"No." The defiance in her eyes was enough to give him pause, but it was quickly replaced by a deep sadness. She sighed. "Erik, why do you always do this? You'd think after all these years you'd know that you can trust me."

He looked down but remained silent.

Christine reached up and placed one hand on either side of his face. "Erik—Erik, look at me." She tilted up his head so that she could look into his eyes. "I love you. I love you so much—maybe even more than you know. And I need you just as much as you need me." He was tearing up under her gaze, but she continued. "I understand about the music—I do! Probably more than anyone else. But I also need you to trust me enough with your feelings to tell me what is going on. Every time that something like this happens, you run to your music and shut yourself away from me." She brushed away a tear from his cheek with the pad of her thumb. "How can I help you when I don't even know what's wrong?"

He gently grabbed her wrists and pulled her hands away from his face, holding both of her hands between his. His eyes were pleading, desperate. "Christine, I can't…I can't talk about this."

"Then you don't have to say anything," she reassured him. "Just let me be there for you. Let me be your music tonight." Now it was her turn to plead. "Come back to bed with me? Please?"

His gaze flitted briefly to the door before returning to her eyes, expectantly waiting for him to make a decision. Of course, there wasn't really even a choice; he would always choose Christine. Reluctantly, he turned and followed her back to the bed, laying down what he hoped would be a safe distance from her, but she insisted on snuggling closer.

"Christine," he protested, "I don't want to hurt you again."

"You won't."

"How do you know?"

"Because I won't allow it." She kissed him on the lips before he could respond.

And whatever objections he might have made suddenly melted away. "Oh, Christine. Christine, I'm so sorry." He kissed her bruised neck, finally releasing the tears he'd been holding back all day. "I'm so sorry."

When they finally fell asleep, Christine's head was on his chest, and Erik's arms were wrapped around her, holding her tighter than he'd ever held on before.

xxxx

The following morning, Christine awoke feeling refreshed, the sunlight streaming through the bedroom window holding the promise of a new day. Yesterday had been hard on all of them, but perhaps today things would begin to smooth over. After disentangling herself from Erik's arms, she planted a soft kiss on his cheek and got up, smiling to herself. Erik was usually a very light sleeper, and the fact that he still had not awakened just showed how extremely tired he was from the day before.

On most mornings he was up early enough to feed the horses and make breakfast before she was even out of bed, but today she decided to let him sleep in, leaving a note on her pillow in case he should worry. After throwing on a light summer dress and running a brush through her tangled auburn curls, she quickly made her way out to the barn.

xxxx

Erik's eyelids slowly fluttered open, letting in the bright sunlight of another morning. He groaned, the light doing nothing to ease his headache. He moved to sit up but was stopped by a sudden sharp pain in his side that shattered all possible fantasies that the events of the night before had been merely a bad dream. He had a feeling that if his ribs hadn't already been broken, they would have been after last night.

_Christine can really do some damage when she wants to!_

He reached over to take her hand but was surprised when his arm landed back on empty sheets.

"Christine?"

He forced himself to sit up, wincing as he did so, and noticed the note on her pillow.

_Erik,_

_ You seemed tired this morning, so I let you sleep in. If you can't find me, I'm either out at the barn or downstairs making breakfast. I love you._

_Christine_

_P.S. – Sorry for kicking you last night._

If it hadn't hurt so much, he would have laughed at the last line. Well, at least she wasn't angry with him.

Pulling himself out from under the covers, he eventually made his way to the bathroom, changing into more suitable clothes before heading downstairs. Before he even made it halfway down, he was greeted with the scent of scrambled eggs and freshly baked croissants. Christine was standing over the stove, stirring a skillet full of eggs when Erik came up behind her, putting his hands on her shoulders and leaning over to kiss her cheek.

"Good morning."

She looked up, smiling. "Good morning."

"Has Mélodie come down yet?"

"Not since I've been up. I guess she's still asleep."

Erik frowned, noticing the tiny purple dots that had shown up on her neck. "Either that, or she's not speaking to us."

"Or that," Christine conceded.

"How were the horses this morning?"

Christine's brow furrowed. "Toulouse is fine, but César seemed to be feeling a bit under the weather."

Erik frowned again. "How so?"

"He didn't eat as much as usual, and he seemed…I'm not sure…depressed, maybe? I'm sure it's nothing. He's probably just tired from the ride into town."

Erik looked worried. "Perhaps….But I think I'll go check on him, just to be sure."

"Alright, but hurry back. Breakfast will be getting cold, and César isn't the only one who hasn't been eating properly."

Erik smiled and kissed her forehead before heading for the door. "You worry too much."

"Only because I love you."

From the top of the stairway, Mélodie rolled her eyes, waiting until she heard the click of the front door being closed to head downstairs. Sometimes her parents could be so melodramatic.

xxxx

The remainder of the week was largely uneventful. Christine wrote a letter to the de Chagnys and made a list of things to buy in town. Erik tended to the horses and worked on his music. And Mélodie spent most of the time in her room avoiding conversation and trying to puzzle out the details of what she'd learned about her father. Mealtime was the only time they all sat down together as a family, but whereas before it had been a time for them to share good news and gossip and laughs, now it was incredibly tense. In a sort of unspoken agreement, they had all decided that what was in the past was better left in the past, and no one had mentioned what had happened in town in several days.

But Mélodie couldn't help but wonder what else her father wasn't sharing. She didn't dare approach the subject with him, but once or twice when he'd been out with the horses or lost in his music, she'd tried to convince Christine to share some little piece of information that would help her. But her mother's answer was always the same.

"It isn't my story to tell, Mélodie. If you want to know more, you'll have to ask him yourself."

"But he won't talk about it," Mélodie whined.

"Then you're just going to have to be satisfied with what he's told you. He'll tell you more when he gets ready to—not before."

But with her mother's insatiable curiosity and her father's incredible stubbornness, Mélodie was never satisfied with that answer. She began keeping a journal of what she had learned about her father's history and questions she still needed to answer. For the moment, her list of questions was significantly longer than the list of things she knew, but she hoped that that would soon change. One way or another, she was determined to piece together the mystery of how her family came to be—with or without her parents' help.

xxxx

The ride to church the following Sunday was quieter than usual. It would be the first time since the incident on Wednesday that they had been in town, and Erik was dreading it. He was supposed to sing a solo, but after all that had happened, he didn't know if he could face the villagers. And even if he could, he wasn't sure he could breathe deeply enough to hold some of the notes with the way his side was still aching. With César's health problems, he had almost managed to convince the family to stay home. But by the end of the week, whatever malady had possessed the horse—most likely just a chill from being out in the rain—seemed to have dissipated, and he appeared to be fit enough to travel.

As the horses' hooves went from soft ground to cobblestones and they approached the little brick chapel, Erik could feel his confidence draining. A week ago, he had felt as though he belonged here, but now he wasn't so certain anymore. Would they accept him now that they knew he had killed a man? How many of them had actually seen his face? It was only uncovered for a split second, but from the audience's horrified reaction, he guessed at least a few of them had seen it. What if someone had recognized him as the Opera Ghost? Would he ever be able to live a normal life again? Would he have to move to keep his family safe?

With so many questions in his mind, he almost forgot to stop and brought the horses to an abrupt halt just a few feet away from the fence. They had been running a bit late this particular morning, and judging by the number of carriages parked outside, nearly everyone else was already inside. Christine had to practically peel him off of the seat just to get him to move, his shaky hands gripping the reins with such fierce tenacity that she feared he'd never let go.

As they stepped into the church, Erik noticed that a hushed whisper passed over the crowd. A few cast furtive glances in their direction but quickly looked away the moment he tried to make eye contact. The first time he'd ever set foot in this church it hadn't been much different, but back then he'd expected it—they hadn't known him and he hadn't known them. Now they looked at him with judgment in their eyes and fear in their hearts, and it hurt him deeply. To think that he had thought these people were different! To think that he had trusted them! He should have known they'd be just like everyone else when the mask came off. He was the same man he'd been two weeks ago, wasn't he? He'd had the same past and the same face then as he did now…. So why did he suddenly feel as though they could see right through the porcelain on his cheek? He reached up to touch the mask, needing the reassurance that it was, in fact, still in place and squeezed Christine's hand a little harder. He hadn't let go of it since stepping off the carriage, afraid that if she wasn't there to drag him down the aisle, he'd go running out the door before the service even started. He glanced at her briefly, hoping for an encouraging smile, but all he could focus on was the light silk scarf wrapped around her neck to conceal the bruises. He sighed. Perhaps they were right to judge him after all.

They took their usual seat near the front with Mélodie farthest to the inside, Christine in the middle, and Erik nearest the aisle since he frequently had to get up to either play or sing. This morning things would be going slightly differently than usual, another member of the church having volunteered to play the organ so that Erik might sing his solo. The substitute organist was one of his best former music students—the kind of student who still asked for advice even after "graduating" from Erik's harsh tutelage—and had it been any other Sunday, he would have been carefully critiquing the young man's every note, making mental notes to offer him pointers after the service. But today his mind was not on the service or on the music.

When it was finally time for the solo, he reluctantly pried his fingers loose from Christine's hand and began walking down the aisle with all the despondency of a condemned prisoner headed toward his execution. Erik had never had difficulty singing, but the moment he turned around to face the audience, he found that his throat had gone dry, his white-knuckled grip on the podium doing little to ease his nerves or calm his shaking hands. The music began to play but when his cue came, he couldn't seem to find his voice, and he was left standing dumbly before an expectant audience as the music continued to play. In his younger years, he had taken pleasure in watching Carlotta flounder for her voice on stage, but now that he knew what it was like—and really it was _almost _as bad as being unmasked—he wouldn't have wished such a curse on anyone. Even Christine was biting her lip, and Mélodie looked as though she wanted to disappear behind the pew, embarrassed by his sudden inability to sing.

"Stop," he whispered.

But the music kept on playing.

"STOP!" His voice echoed through the church.

This time the music ended abruptly, the organist's fingers poised in perfectly curved little question marks, and the room went absolutely silent so that the only thing Erik could hear was the beating of his own heart.

"I'm sorry. I…I can't do this."

And then, without another word, he fled the room, exiting through a side door so he wouldn't have to see the discrimination and disappointment in the congregation's eyes.

Erik leaned against the door, breathing heavily. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back against the faded white paint, sinking slowly to the ground. This had been his chance to win them back, to show the townspeople that nothing had changed—that he was still a good churchgoing man who loved his wife and daughter and was a good neighbor and friend. If he had just been able to get through the song—if he had just managed to act like nothing had happened for the remaining half-hour of the service—things might have gone back to normal. But they saw right through his act. Was that all his life here was, he wondered—another façade, another mask that he was trying to hide behind? He really had changed, hadn't he?

From the inside of the church, he heard strains of the song he was supposed to sing in a much higher pitch, and determined that Christine had mercifully taken up where he left off. He hung his head.

_She must be so embarrassed right now_.

Ironically, it was a song about forgiveness. But he doubted that anyone would really take it to heart now that he'd gone and ruined things. [1]

Hot tears streamed down his cheeks. He'd been fighting them off as long as he could. He would not further embarrass himself. He would not lose control here, on the back steps of the church in the middle of town. But his emotions had other ideas.

He hated himself right now. He hated his face. He hated his past. He hated that he had not been able to protect Mélodie from all the cruelties of the world. He hated that he had hurt and disappointed Christine. He hated his cowardice. And most of all, he hated that he was allowing himself to display such weakness.

He angrily sniffed back any tears that were still threatening to fall and wiped his good cheek with the back of his gloved hand. Beneath the mask, it was hot and sticky. He could already feel the salt crystallizing on his skin. He tried to ignore the discomfort but eventually gave in, glancing around briefly to make sure that no one was around before removing the mask and brushing away yet another stray tear.

"Erik?"

Erik stiffened, hurriedly replacing the mask. He looked up to see who had addressed him and was surprised to find the wizened old priest staring down at him with a decidedly paternal gaze.

"Father Martin! Shouldn't you be back inside?"

"I could ask you the same thing, my boy." The old man motioned to area beside Erik. "May I sit?"

Erik didn't answer but scooted over to the right so that the priest would be facing his good side. In the many years since they'd arrived in this small town, Erik had become close to the older man, confiding many of his fears and doubts in him and often asking for advice. He admired the man not only for his staunch faith and kind personality but also for his respectfulness and tact. When Christine had miscarried, he was the only one who hadn't pried but had listened dutifully when he was ready to talk. In all honesty, the man had become a father figure for him, and he valued his opinion above nearly everyone's but Christine.

The old priest sighed thoughtfully as he sat down. "You know, your wife has a lovely voice, but I was rather looking forward to hearing _you_ sing today."

Erik looked down. When he addressed the man by his title, it was with all the love of a devoted son. "I'm sorry, Father. I don't belong in there anymore."

"And what makes you think that, Erik?" When there was no response, he continued. "You think you're not good enough? Every single person in that church has sinned, Erik, and anyone who tells you otherwise is lying."

"Yes, but more than likely they haven't _killed_ anyone."

"'Whoever keeps the whole law and yet stumbles at one point is guilty of all.' [2] Sin is sin, Erik. God looks on it all the same. The good news is that He also _forgives _all sin the same."

"Perhaps…but _they_ don't see it as all the same."

"They have no right to judge you. That is between you and God. 'He who is without sin, let him cast the first stone.'" [3]

Erik huffed in annoyance. "Everyone else in there was avoiding me like the plague. Why aren't you?"

"Everyone else is basing their opinion of you either on a single incident brought up in idle gossip or your appearance alone."

"Have you seen it?" he asked suddenly.

He didn't have to specify what 'it' was for Father Martin to understand. "No," he answered slowly. "No, I have not."

Erik peeled back the mask, turning to face the priest. "Then take a good look." Though he spoke through clenched teeth, his voice was shaking. "Take a good look at the Devil's Child before you say that appearances do not matter."

Erik closed his eyes, unable to accept yet another rejection. But when he opened them, he saw that the man's expression had not changed.

"I am looking, Erik. And all I see is a face—the face of a man who I know for a fact is an extraordinary composer, a magnificent musician, and an exceptionally talented singer who also happens to be a very dear friend."

Erik was losing his composure again, but the old priest didn't seem to mind. He waited until Erik had calmed down and resumed the mask before continuing.

"Let me ask you something, Erik. Do you regret what you have done?"

Erik was unable to speak but nodded earnestly.

"And have you accepted the Son of God?"

Erik swallowed the lump in his throat. "You know that I have."

"Then you are NOT the Devil's Child but a Child of God. And nothing can take that from you." He paused and readjusted his spectacles. "Now, would you like to tell me what _really_ happened, or should I assume that you don't want to talk about it?"

Erik pinched the bridge of his nose. In all honesty, he _didn't_ want to talk about it, but if anyone deserved to hear the truth, it was Father Martin. He sighed. This was one confession he wasn't quite ready to make.

"I was only a child—probably about as old as Mélodie is now. I had been with the gypsies since I was five."

He paused to take a breath. Christine had learned most of his past from Madame Giry, and they rarely spoke of it nowadays. Antoinette had been there for most of it, and even Sapphira knew at least what had happened during his time with the gypsies. This was the first time, he realized, that he had really ever tried to tell anyone his story aside from his work on the opera with Monsieur Leroux. And it was proving to be more difficult than he thought.

"They treated the animals poorly in that circus, and they treated me even worse—like I was some kind of _thing!_—some horrible creature that had escaped from hell. I had nothing but an old burlap sack to cover my face and hardly any better in the way of clothing. Every day they would try to take off the sack, and every day I would beg them not to do it…. But they never listened." There was a distant look in his eyes. He gave a hollow, half-hearted laugh. "I was their main attraction. _Everyone_ wanted to see The Devil's Child so they could laugh and point and be glad that no matter how unattractive they were, their face would never be as hideous as mine."

A few more tears leaked out, but Father Martin said nothing and waited quietly for him to go on.

"One day, I couldn't take it anymore. I saw the opportunity, and I took it. I know it was wrong of me to do it, but I was so tired of being made a fool. So tired of being beaten into submission and humiliated…and I didn't see any other way out." His voice cracked. "I just wanted to be treated like a decent human being! Was that too much to ask for?" He waited until he had his emotions back under control before continuing. "There were…others…."

Father Martin frowned. "Others?"

Erik nodded. "Not gypsies. Just…people who got in the way…." He shook his head. "They didn't deserve to die, and I have no excuses for what happened to them besides my own selfish desires." He paused again, thinking of Sapphira as the bright-eyed child who'd seen her father die at the hand of a boy she'd considered a friend. True, he hadn't been a model father, but…. "I _am_ sorry for their deaths, and I _do_ regret taking the gypsy's life…but I do not regret my escape, and I cannot find it within my heart to forgive either him or my father."

"Your father?"

"I was a mistake."

"God does not make mistakes, Erik."

"No, but humans given the power of free will do. I was never supposed to be born, much less born looking like this! My mother…she tried to love me, but I think…I think she was afraid of me. I can forgive her for that, but if my father had had his way, I probably would have been drowned shortly after my birth. He was, indirectly, the reason I ended up with the gypsies in the first place…. I've tried and tried to forget all of that, but I can't seem to let it go."

"Well of course _you_ can't!" The way Father Martin said it as if it was the most natural thing in the world took Erik by surprise. "No mere human was meant to bear such a burden alone. That's why God bears them _for _us. Perhaps you simply need to take a new approach."

"What do you mean?"

"Try looking at them through God's eyes instead of yours. Try to pity them."

Erik was incredulous. "Me? Pity _them_? After all they've done to me?"

"Precisely. It is obvious to me from the way that they treated you that they had absolutely no concept of what it is to love. If I'm not mistaken, you yourself know what that is like—to be a slave to bitterness and hatred and selfish desire—but you have also learned what it means to care about others, to show mercy, and to put others' needs above your own. Is it not better to love and be loved—even if it sometimes comes with pain—than to spend all of this life and the next devoid of any such feeling?"

Erik was nearly shocked into silence. "I…I never thought of it like that before."

"Well, it's…something to consider."

Erik nodded hesitantly.

Father Martin stood to leave. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a sermon to deliver _inside_ as well—assuming the congregation hasn't already left or fallen asleep! Would you care to join me?"

Erik shifted uncomfortably but kept his eyes downcast.

Father Martin tried again. "You know, your protégé will be out of town for a few weeks. If I don't have my lead organist back by then, I'll have to ask Madame LeBrusche to play our music."

Erik grimaced. "I wouldn't exactly call that 'music.'"

Father Martin grinned. "It's a bit more of a 'joyful noise,' I think." There was a twinkle in his eyes. "So, are you going to help me or not?"

Erik looked up timidly. "I know this wasn't a traditional confession, but…you won't tell anyone, will you?"

The old priest smiled. "Not as long as you don't tell Madame LeBrusche what I think of her musical abilities." He winked.

The corners of Erik's lips lifted ever so slightly. It was the closest he'd come to smiling all day.

Father Martin offered him a hand up. "Come along, then. Let's not keep them waiting any longer. If anyone tries to reprimand you, they will have to answer to me." He paused for a moment, looking suddenly very serious. "Unless, of course, it's your wife. In that case, I'm afraid the most I can do is hope for the best and pray to God that she'll have mercy on you!" He smiled yet again.

And Erik couldn't help but laugh.

[1] The song Erik was supposed to sing (and that Christine takes over) is basically a more acoustic-sounding version of "East to West" by Casting Crowns. I know the song is very contemporary and doesn't really go with organ music, but the lyrics just really remind me of Erik, so just try to use your imagination. :)

[2] James 2:10

[3] John 8:7


	10. César

**Chapter Nine: César**

Christine was stacking the supper dishes when she heard the front door open. Erik stood in the doorway, looking disheveled. Christine frowned.

"I thought you were taking César out for a ride. Is everything alright?"

Erik raked his fingers through his hair. "We pushed him too hard today. He wasn't ready for a trip into town." He let out a heavy sigh. "Christine, he's not eating. He's not even standing. Whatever was troubling him, it's come back."

There was a moment of silence, neither daring to voice their fears aloud. Christine's eyes darted to the sofa where Mélodie was curled up with one of her favorite books, blissfully unaware of the seriousness of the situation. She lowered her voice and motioned for Erik to come further into the kitchen where they might have a bit more privacy.

"I thought he was over it," she whispered. "He seemed fine this morning…."

Erik sighed again. "So did I. But apparently we were both wrong."

"Should we send for the vet?"

Erik shook his head. "No. It would take too long. It would be a day's ride out and a day's ride back at the very least. By then he could worsen."

Christine approached her husband hesitantly. This was a delicate matter, and after all he'd been through in the past week, she didn't want to upset him. She laid a hand on his arm. "Erik, César is…well, he's an old horse and…."

He turned away from her touch, leaning against one of the cabinets. "I know. His chances of survival if things get any worse are…low." He took a deep breath. "If it's alright with you, I think I'm going to stay up with him."

"Do you want me come with you?"

Erik turned back to face her, caressing her cheek with his thumb. "No. You rest. I'll be fine."

"Do you think he'll be alright?"

She looked into his eyes, hoping for the reassurance that was always there when she needed it. But this time he disappointed her.

"I don't know."

xxxx

Erik had been sitting in the hay for nearly four hours. He'd given up on trying to feed the old stallion when, after repeatedly ignoring the bucket of oats placed under his nose, César had decided to simply knock the whole thing over. Even in his weakened state, he was a stubborn old horse. Perhaps that's why they'd gotten along so well over the years, Erik pondered—they were both too stubborn for their own good sometimes. Under other circumstances, he probably would have laughed at the annoying antics of his four-legged friend, but tonight things were different. [1]

Leaning against the back wall of the barn, he watched the labored rise and fall of the stallion's barrel-like chest, his dark coat glistening with beads of sweat in the moonlight. He remembered another night, thirteen years ago, when the moon was as bright as a lantern's glow, its silvery beams leaving streaks of gray and blue in César's dark, windswept mane as they'd galloped over the hills of the French countryside. He remembered the first time he'd laid eyes on him, a willowy black colt born in the opera house stables in the dead of a cold winter's night. The owners didn't think he would live. He was too small, too thin, too early to survive. But Erik had believed in him. Somewhere, in the depths of those dark eyes, he'd seen potential. He'd seen a fighting spirit that the world had condemned to death, a lively spark that left to itself would soon burn out. He'd stayed up with César back then, too. Every night after all of Paris had fallen asleep, he'd slip out to the stables, cuddling and coddling this tiny foal who didn't seem to mind his face until the first pink rays of dawn streaked over the horizon and stars began to fade. He hadn't given up on him then, and he wasn't about to give up on him now.

This horse had seen him at his best and at his worst. When Antoinette had gotten married, leaving the opera house for the arms of an aspiring doctor, César had been there to keep him company. When he first saw Christine, young and innocent and in need of a friend, César had listened to him go on and on about the child who somehow saw an angel in his hideous visage. César had heard him stumble and stutter through a thousand professions of love that he knew he'd never have the courage to say. On Christine's first visit to the underground lair, César had helped him make her feel like a princess. César had seen the diva's rise to fame and watched the opera house go up in flames. He'd witnessed the opera ghost's "death" and Mélodie's birth and all the years of her childhood. When it came right down to it, César was as much a part of Erik's family as any human was—a sort of four-legged brother and best friend—and now he was dying.

In the distance, the golden light of a lantern was slowly approaching. He watched as it drew nearer, bathing the walls in a soft yellow glow and casting shadows out of the darkness, their still forms becoming animate in the flickering light. He could tell from the silhouette that it was Christine before she even reached the stall door. Hooking the lantern on a peg near the main entrance, she unlatched the gate and walked over, leaning against the door to the stall. Her eyes lit on César's prostrate form. He was unnaturally still save for the heaving of his sides, his breaths coming in harsh, irregular intervals.

"How's he doing?"

"He's getting weaker." Erik's voice was barely a whisper, as if by keeping it a secret he could somehow prevent the hand of fate from intervening.

Christine opened the gate and stepped inside the stall. There was an old gray blanket draped over her arm. "I brought you this." She held it out to him. "I thought it might make things a bit more comfortable."

Erik accepted it gratefully and wrapped it around his shoulders. Despite being early summer, the nights were still cool, and the peals of distant thunder signaled another storm on the horizon.

Christine knelt quietly by his side and slipped her hand in his, giving it a gentle squeeze.

"I'm losing him, Christine," he whispered. "I'm losing him, and I…I don't know what to do."

Surprisingly, there was no quaver in his voice. He couldn't cry right now. It was all happening so fast—so unexpectedly—that he was still in shock.

Christine leaned over on his shoulder, her eyes shining brightly with unshed tears. Though she hadn't known César for as long as Erik, she too had come love the old stallion, and it broke her heart to see his once proud eyes clouded over in pain and desperation. A single silver tear slipped down her cheek.

"Sometimes…sometimes the kindest thing you can do…is to let go."

Erik closed his eyes. "I can't. He's always been there for me, and I…I can't just give up. I can't just stop fighting for him."

"For him or for you?" Christine sat up so that she was facing him. "Erik, I know you love that horse…and he loves you. That's why he's lasted this long. He's holding on for you, Erik. And as long as you let him, he'll keep holding on until he's either too weak or in too much pain to fight. I know because that's what my father did for me…and it was a very long, difficult process for the both of us. Death is not a choice, Erik, but whether we accept it or fight it is something we can choose. He chose you. He's always chosen you. And now, if you truly love him as I know you do…then you must choose him."

She kissed him softly on the cheek and stood to leave, brushing the hay from her skirts. She turned to open the gate.

"Give me until morning."

Christine looked back over her shoulder. The pain she saw reflected in his eyes was almost more than she could bear.

"I want to say goodbye."

Christine nodded solemnly and once again started to leave.

"Christine?"

She turned at the sound of her name.

"Don't let Mélodie out of the house tomorrow. And keep her away from the windows. I don't want her to see it."

xxxx

Before the first red rays of dawn pierced the clouded horizon, Erik was up and moving. He gently slipped a halter over César's head and, attaching the lead, encouraged him to get up. It took two or three tries, but eventually the old stallion gained his footing, standing on wobbly legs and looking very much like the gangly little foal Erik had seen take his first steps in the opera house stables. It was difficult just for him to stay upright, but somehow the horse managed.

Erik slipped something off the shelf into his pocket, the silvery gleam catching the horses' attention. He led César forward with one hand and took a shovel in the other.

Toulouse whinnied anxiously as they headed for the door, upset at being left behind. Erik stopped suddenly, pitying the creature. Toulouse and César usually did everything together, and now he would have to face the world alone. Erik gave the young gelding a gentle pat on the neck.

"No, Toulouse. Not this time. You have to stay here."

The older stallion stretched out his neck so that his nose barely touched the chestnut's left shoulder, and for a moment, they simply seemed to stare at one another in a sort of silent goodbye.

The walk to the hill was long and silent. César was tired, and Erik was in no particular hurry. Even though he knew it was incredibly selfish, he wanted their last few moments together to stretch out as long as possible. Every step the old horse took required great effort. Every breath he took was labored. But he never once stopped or slowed down. And Erik knew then that even if he'd asked his old friend for a ride to the ends of the earth, the horse would have continued to put one foot in front of the other for as long as it took to reach their destination.

By the time they reached the old maple on top of the knoll, the inky black sky was just beginning to turn a pale, smoky gray. The clouds that had rolled in overnight now blanketed the sky. It would not be a particularly beautiful sunrise, but it would be the last one they spent together, and Erik intended for them to make the most of it while they could. The sun would be coming up just over the rooftops of the house and barn, and as they turned to face it, Erik caught a glimpse of Christine peeking out one of the windows just long enough to let him know she was there. Mélodie was probably still asleep.

As the first light flooded the eastern sky, Erik turned to César and wrapped his arms around the horse's neck, burying his face into the thick black mane that cloaked the stallion's sweat-slicked neck. He inhaled deeply, breathing in the scent of a thousand memories—hay and manure and dirt and summer sun. The first of many tears were already starting to fall. He stroked the warm black silk for one last time.

"Forgive me," he whispered.

The sound of a gunshot pierced the morning air. There was a moment of silence followed by an almost inhuman cry of despair. And Christine knew without even looking that César was dead.

[1] The instrumental theme for this chapter and the first part of the next one is "One Family" from Disney's _Tarzan_ soundtrack.

***Hides under the bed* Okay guys, please don't kill me! Please? If it makes you feel any better, I literally cried writing this chapter... **


	11. A Proposition

**Chapter Ten: A Proposition**

Erik crumpled to the ground, kneeling in the dirt beside his fallen companion. The spark of life—the stubborn, playful gleam in those chocolate-brown eyes—was gone now, and Erik couldn't bear to see it. With trembling hands, he slowly removed the blanket from his shoulders and wrapped it carefully around the old stallion's face so that he looked to be merely blindfolded. Slipping into a sitting position, he cradled César's head in his lap, running his fingers through the tangled black tendrils of the horse's mane and down his neck, still warm with life. He stopped when they encountered a trickle of blood, hot and sticky on his hand. He jerked back suddenly, watching the red drip between his fingers and feeling utterly sickened at the knowledge that his hand had pulled the trigger. He hugged the old horse tighter then, not caring that blood was staining his shirt or that the rain was starting to fall, and surrendered to the shuddering sobs of a man who has lost his best friend.

Erik didn't know how long he stayed like that, sitting in the rain with his face pressed up against César's neck, shoulders heaving in uncontrollable sobs and shirt soaking up blood, but he must have eventually fallen asleep, for when he finally raised his head, the body had grown cool to the touch, and the gentle summer rain had started coming down in sheets. Reluctantly, he stood, numbly taking the shovel in his hand. He didn't care that it was raining or that he was only one man trying to do a job that would usually take three or four. He didn't care that most people probably wouldn't have bothered to give a horse a proper burial or would have called him crazy. This needed to be done, and as he was the only man around—and he wouldn't dare ask Christine or Mélodie to help with such a gruesome task—he simply took it upon himself to do the digging.

He plunged the shovel into the dirt, a metallic clang ringing out as the tip hit a rock. Frustrated, he tried again, this time bringing up a shovelful of dirt, which he cast aside. There was a long way to go, but it was a start. Again, he raised the shovel high above the ground, stabbing the earth with a satisfying crunch. Soon it would be sloppy. Soon the dirt would turn to mud, and the hole—however deep it might get—would start to cave in and the shovel would be of little use. But he would dig this hole with his bare hands if he had to. And he wouldn't stop until it was finished. He began working faster, harder—throwing himself fully into the work, the harsh physical labor momentarily deterring him the dark thoughts that clouded his mind, all of his pent up emotions mercifully released as he attacked the ground. If he worked himself hard enough, he'd be too tired to cry, too worn out to feel any pain other than what was caused by physical exertion. And that was exactly what he intended to do.

xxxx

From inside the house, Christine peered out the kitchen window. It was killing her to watch him out there, working himself to death in a downpour that could rival Noah's flood. If she was being completely honest with herself, she knew a good wife would probably either go and help or drag him back inside. But she also knew Erik well enough to know that there were certain times when he just needed to be left alone to grieve. This was one of those times. And so she dutifully waited by the window, watching from a distance as he dug a grave big enough for a rather large horse and a rather large piece of his heart, knowing that he'd come in eventually and that when he did finally fall apart, she'd be there to put him back together.

xxxx

It was several hours before Mélodie came downstairs, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and wandering into the kitchen where she was surprised to find the table empty and the windows darkened with the curtains despite the cloudy skies, the only light coming from the corner where the cloth had been pushed back and Christine stood with her face pressed up against the glass looking at something in the distance. Mélodie frowned.

"Where's Papa? Didn't he make breakfast this morning?" She vaguely remembered her parents discussing something in hushed tones the night before. She hadn't heard all of it, but she knew that César was sick again. "Is César alright?" When her mother gave no response, she ran over to the window. "What are you looking at?"

Christine hurriedly pulled the curtain back into place. "Nothing."

Mélodie frowned again. "It's not nothing! Why won't you let me see it?"

She reached for the curtains, but Christine was quick to grab her arm.

"Mélodie, NO!"

Mélodie dropped her hand, surprised at seeing her mother suddenly so defensive. And then realization began to sink in. "César's gone, isn't he?"

Christine nodded slowly. "Your father's burying him out beneath the old maple tree on the hill."

Mélodie sank into one of the chairs, all thoughts of breakfast forgotten. She suddenly found that she wasn't very hungry. She blinked back a few tears. "Mama…I didn't mean for this to happen. I didn't mean for Papa to get hurt or for César to get sick when I went into town. I was just curious about the gypsies and Papa never told me and…."

Christine took her into her arms. "I know, sweetheart. And so does your father."

"He's probably angry with me again."

"Mélodie, the only reason he was ever angry with you was because he was worried about you—because he loves you. He just…needs some time alone, I think."

Mélodie looked up. "When he comes in…tell him I'm sorry."

Christine ran her fingers through her daughter's curls comfortingly. "He knows, sweetie. He knows."

xxxx

By the time Erik finished, it was dark outside, the yellow glow from inside the house the only source of light. He hadn't stopped all day—not even to eat—and he was beginning to feel a little lightheaded. Every muscle in his body was screaming in agony, begging for a rest. But he had accomplished his goal.

When he staggered through the front door, Christine was there to meet him as he knew she would be. Without a word, she quietly slipped her arms around his waist, pulling him close, not caring that the wet clothes clinging to his skin were leaving a puddle in the floor or that his white shirt was now stained with mud and blood and sprinkled with horse hairs. He gratefully returned the embrace, silently thanking her for understanding. There were no words for what he was feeling right now, not even a musical score that could capture the sheer anguish that he felt. Right now, he just needed some quiet time to think.

But the stillness of the moment was shattered when he pulled back and Christine suddenly noticed the horrible blisters on his hands, rubbed raw from working without gloves. She gasped.

"Erik, your hands!"

"They are no more hideous than the rest of me. They will heal in time."

"They need bandages."

"I'll be fine, Christine."

But he hissed in pain when she barely grazed his palm with her fingertips. She helped him over to a chair.

"Come sit down. I'll wrap them in a moment."

Ordinarily, he would have protested, but in his current state, he was too tired to argue.

Christine returned momentarily, carrying a box of bandaging materials in one hand and a bucket of soapy water in the other. She knelt at his feet, resuming her silence as she began washing the dirt from his hands. Though it stung horribly, he gave no indication of it, having trained himself long ago to ignore far worse physical injuries.

"I…I sang a requiem for him," Erik said quietly. "God forgive me if I was wrong to do so, but I do not see how He could look lovingly upon my wretched face and not give the same love to such a noble creature."

Christine said nothing but continued washing and wrapping his hands as she waited for him to say something more. But he seemed to have become lost in his thoughts again and went back to being silent, staring at his hands as she worked. She looked up when she felt something warm and wet land on the back of her hand.

"Erik…"

He licked his lips hesitantly. "How is it that I always manage to destroy everything that I love?"

His shoulders were shaking, but there was no sound.

Christine abandoned the gauze, having finished her doctoring, and stood, putting her hands on his shoulders. "Let's get you into some dry clothes. You'll feel better in the morning after you've gotten some sleep."

Erik reluctantly complied and headed up the stairs, disappearing into the bathroom while Christine got ready for bed. She had just finished wrapping a robe around her when Erik came into the bedroom, wearing clothes that he typically only wore into town. He'd already donned the mask and wig. Christine frowned.

"Erik, why are you—"

"I'm going out for awhile."

Christine paled. The last time something like this had happened...she shuddered.

"I'm just going for a walk," he reassured her.

Christine calmed a bit but still seemed unsure. "In town? At this hour? Erik, you've barely had any sleep for two days, and you haven't eaten anything since yesterday. Don't you think you think you should get some rest?"

"There's something I need to do first." He threw on a light jacket. "I doubt I'd get any sleep tonight anyway." He turned to face her, seeing that she was still worried, and held her at arm's length so she could see the truth in his eyes. "I'll come back, I promise. I made a mistake once, but I will _never_ make that same mistake again. Please trust me." He kissed her softly on the lips. "I love you."

She pulled back slowly from the kiss, not wanting it to end. "I love you, too."

"Goodnight, Christine. I'll see you in the morning."

As he closed the bedroom door and headed down the hall, he stopped suddenly, noticing a light from Mélodie's room. The door was slightly ajar.

"Mélodie?" he whispered.

When there was no answer, he let himself in. He found her lying on the bed, arm dangling off the edge with a book in her hand. Apparently she had fallen asleep reading. He gently removed the book from her hand and, closing it, laid it aside. Turning down the oil lamp until it was just a faint glow, he started to leave but stopped midway to the door. For the past few weeks, they had not been on particularly good terms with one another, but if he had learned anything from the heart-wrenching experience with César, it was to never take a loved one for granted. He hadn't tucked her in in years, but tonight it somehow just seemed right. Pulling the covers up over her sleeping form, he gently kissed her cheek.

"Goodnight, Mélodie. I love you."

Had he lingered a few seconds longer, he would have seen a content smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

xxxx

Although the rain had stopped, the air was still thick with moisture when Erik headed out for the night, each little water droplet reflecting the light of the lantern in a million different angles, forming a fuzzy yellow ring around the lamp. Swirls of silver mist seemed to materialize out of the darkness only to vanish again as he drew near, their ghostly gleam banished by the light. In the distance, a few crickets were beginning their evening hum.

Despite having lived aboveground for more than a decade now, Erik had never really outgrown his preference for the darkness of the night. Sunrises and sunsets were beautiful, of course, and daylight was nice for certain things…but the night offered a quiet peace and rest. It was a time for reflecting, a time for rejuvenating the body, mind, and soul. It was a time when he could be alone with his thoughts without interruption, a time for inspiration—many of his best pieces of music had been written at three or four in the morning on nights he couldn't sleep. It was a time to simply _be_—a time to exist without plan or purpose, to drift somewhere between reality and dreams. And it was surreal.

At the moment, he was doing just that—drifting without really having much of a plan as to where he was going or why he was going there. He knew he was headed in the general direction of town, but aside from that, he didn't really even know where he was. And yet he knew that there was something he needed to do, some reason why he'd felt the need to take a midnight stroll beyond mere distraction. After such a trying day, he was nearly ready to collapse, but even if he had been near a bed, he wouldn't have wanted to sleep. Not yet. Not while the image of César's bloodied, lifeless body was still fresh in his mind. So he forced himself to keep walking.

Eventually, he saw a faint glow through the windows of a house in the distance. Upon closer inspection, he recognized it as the home of Madame LeBlanc, the elderly widow who was their closest neighbor aside from the de Chagny summer home. Knowing that she lived a little over halfway between their house and town, Erik estimated that he'd been walking for nearly three miles. And at this rate, he didn't think he could go much further without literally falling on his face.

As he passed by the window, he looked to see whether the old widow was still up, assuming that she was not yet asleep from the warm, inviting glow that emanated from the small cottage. Unfortunately, it was at that very moment that Madame LeBlanc chose to turn around and, seeing a face at the window, dropped the plate of cookies she was carrying, her hand suddenly flying to her heart. Once she recognized the masked face, however, she quickly regained her composure, laughing at herself for being so skittish. She was still laughing when she answered the door, a merry twinkle in her sky-blue eyes.

"Erik, dear! You certainly gave my poor old heart a fright!"

Erik felt the heat rise to his cheeks. Once, long ago, his face had been enough to make one old man's heart stop for good. The memory was not a pleasant one.

"Forgive me," he apologized sincerely, "I didn't mean to startle you."

"What on earth are you doing out this far this late at night?"

"I'm not really sure," he answered honestly. "I just felt like going out for a walk, and when I saw you still had the light on—"

"You _walked_ all this way? Dear heavens, child, come in! You must be exhausted!"

Erik sighed in relief as the old widow ushered him inside, sinking down into a chair by the sofa and massaging his temples. "You have no idea."

"Bad day?" she asked sympathetically.

Erik didn't look up. Saying that it had been a 'bad day' would be putting it mildly. But after all that had happened in town, he was honestly a bit surprised that the elderly woman had even let him into her house, and he accepted her kindness gratefully.

"One of the horses…César…passed away this morning," he said quietly. "That's why…" He held out his bandaged hands, as if they were enough of an explanation.

"You were rather attached to that one, weren't you?" The old woman sighed as she stooped to collect the plate of cookies from the floor. Surprisingly, it was only chipped rather than shattered, and most of the cookies were still in place. "I used to ride all the time as a girl. There was a little bay filly—Belle—who was my favorite. Had her for nearly forty years before she finally died. When she passed on, I cried for days. My husband didn't understand, but when you've loved something for more than half of your lifetime, learning to live without it can be quite difficult." She held out the plate that was in her hand. "Cookie?"

"No, thank you. I—" Of course, it so happened that Erik's stomach chose to growl at that particular moment.

Madame LeBlanc chuckled. "Have some, dear."

Erik didn't argue. He _was_ rather hungry, he admitted. He bit into one of the cookies.

"Would you like some tea with that?"

"Thank you, but I wouldn't want to intrude on your hospitality any further than I already have."

"You're not intruding," she insisted. "I'm offering." She turned and began looking through the cupboard. "Now, I know I put that kettle around here somewhere…Ah! There it is."

Erik found himself smiling as the old widow scurried around the kitchen. He had come here on a whim, not really expecting to find a friend. But Madame LeBlanc seemed to be among the few who had not changed their opinion of him after the gypsy incident, and he was immensely thankful that she hadn't brought it up. This was good news not only because it meant he had an ally but also because of her position within the community. Madame LeBlanc was one of the town's oldest residents and had lived in the area her entire life—before there had even really been a town! She was, therefore, held in high regard by most of the villagers, and her opinion held a lot of sway. She was also the mother duck of the town—a kind of older, rounder Madame Giry of sorts. But whereas Antoinette could be forceful when she needed to be, he didn't think there was a strict bone in the old widow's body.

When she emerged from the kitchen with a steaming cup of tea in each hand, he realized for the first time all day just how cold it had been working out in the rain. He took a long sip from the cup, closing his eyes and letting the tea warm him from the inside out.

Madame LeBlanc seated herself on the sofa and sipped her own tea thoughtfully before replacing the cup on the table between them.

"You know, I have three horses now," she said. "I don't really need but two of them to pull the carriage, and Jean Claude has been picking me up most Sundays anyway. If you need to borrow one of them for awhile, you're more than welcome to—just until you can buy another one."

Erik started to protest, but suddenly cut himself short, furrowing his brow. "Jean Claude works for the local paper, correct?"

Jean Claude was Madame LeBlanc's eldest son. He lived on the far side of town, so Erik rarely saw him outside of church.

Madame LeBlanc shook her head, tiny ringlets of silver curls bouncing. "Yes, and my goodness if it doesn't keep that boy busy! They've been running short on help lately—Bernice has been out with the baby, you know—so I've been doing most of the editing." She took another sip. "From the house, of course."

Erik was beginning to get an idea. "How would you feel about having some help?"

Madame LeBlanc looked mildly surprised. "I couldn't pay you anything," she said regretfully. "They don't pay me right now as it is. I'm not officially on the books."

"You wouldn't have to. Just let us borrow one of the horses and…ask Jean Claude if he'd consider adding an article or two every few months."

The old woman frowned. "What sort of article?"

Erik stared pensively into his tea. "I don't know yet. I'd have to ask the author first and see if she's willing do some extra work."


	12. A Visit from the de Chagnys

**Author's Note: Just a warning, this chapter and the next one are very OC-heavy (and this one's kinda long!). I apologize for taking the spotlight temporarily away from Erik & Christine, but I promise they'll show up again soon. This chapter is necessary for later plot points to occur, so just bear with me for a little while. Enjoy! :)**

**~CaptainHooksGirl~**

**Chapter Eleven: A Visit from the de Chagnys**

"Mélodie?" Erik gently shook her shoulder. "Mélodie, wake up."

Mélodie groaned and rolled over, pulling the pillow over her face. "Papa, it's still dark outside," she whined. "Can't it wait?"

"Not unless you want to be late for your first day on the job."

Mélodie sat up. "What job?"

"I spoke with Madame LeBlanc last night. She's been helping her son with newspaper, but she could use a little extra help. It involves a lot of editing, which I know you're not particularly fond of, but if you do a good job with it—and I know you will—you might very well see some of your stories show up in print."

Mélodie's jaw dropped. "My writing? Published?"

"It would just be in the local paper, but yes. That is, of course, assuming that you're willing to do the work…."

Mélodie practically threw herself at her father. "Oh, yes! Oh, Papa, thank you!"

Erik chuckled softly, putting an arm around her. "Don't thank me yet. It may turn out to be harder work than you think. Now hurry and get dressed. Madame LeBlanc is downstairs waiting for you."

xxxx

Christine stood by the window, watching as Mélodie took off on Toulouse galloping at full speed. She sighed happily as Erik came up behind her, putting his hands on her shoulders. It had been nearly two weeks since their daughter had started her job, and she still hadn't stopped talking about it.

"I've never seen her so excited about anything before. It's like she's finally found her place in the world."

Erik frowned. "Yes, but for how long? How long will this be enough to keep her content until she becomes bored with life again? She wants more than what this town has to offer, Christine—more than I think I _can_ offer her given…" He shook his head. "I don't want to limit her dreams, but there are certain things she just can't do because of her…association…with me. And I don't know how to remedy that. I can't expect her to stay here forever."

"Erik, seventeen years ago you were living underneath the opera house, and hardly anyone knew you as anything other than 'the Opera Ghost.' Now you're a well-respected composer with a house in the country and a family who loves you…. You've come farther than most ever thought you would. Just give her a chance. Just let her be happy doing what she loves most—wherever that may take her."

He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Paris isn't safe. It never will be. Not as long as they remember the fire."

"But they all think you're dead."

"For now. But if someone were to show up with my same condition, they'd begin to wonder. And who knows what they'd do to her."

Christine sighed, tired of trying to convince Erik not to worry. They'd gone in circles over the subject for years, and they still hadn't arrived at a satisfactory answer. "Speaking of Paris, I received a letter from Meg yesterday. They're coming up for their annual summer vacation next week."

"Lovely," Erik huffed.

Christine frowned. "Erik…"

"It's not that I don't enjoy seeing Antoinette, and I know you'll be happy to see Meg but…."

"You won't have to see him much. He's going to be visiting a few of his business partners a couple of towns over while they're in the area."

"It's not even de Chagny I'm worried about. Christophe and Mélodie have never gotten along well. After all that we've been through in the past month, I think everything is finally beginning to return to normal, and I'm afraid he'll put a strain on things."

"It's only for a few weeks," she reminded him. "And since she started working for Madame LeBlanc, she's been gone for the better part of two or three days a week anyway. It shouldn't be too difficult for her to avoid him. And who knows? Perhaps he's grown out of his old habits."

Erik sighed. "I highly doubt it."

xxxx

It was a sunny Tuesday afternoon when the train carrying the de Chagny family pulled into town. Despite having their own private boxcar and another for the horses, the vicomte and vicomtesse were incredibly tired after the journey. It was a long ride in from Paris, and the train had broken down once along the way, adding another grueling six hours to the trip. And although he loved his family, six extra hours of being cooped up in a boxcar with his mother-in-law, two very fussy children, and a pregnant wife was almost more than Raoul could stand. So it was that when they arrived in town and stepped out into the fresh air of the French countryside, everyone breathed a sigh of relief.

They quickly retrieved the horses, attaching their two chestnut mares to the carriage and saddling the third horse, a feisty young gelding who was more than ready to get out of the train and feel the grass beneath his hooves.

"Can I ride him, Father?" Christophe asked eagerly. "Just this once? I promise to be careful."

Raoul glanced briefly at his wife, who nodded with approval. "Alright," he consented. "But he likes to run, so don't let him get too out of hand."

Christophe eagerly leaped into the saddle, taking off at lightning speed with barely a touch of his heels.

Raoul shook his head as he watched them ride away and took his seat in the carriage. "He certainly is a magnificent animal. I'm going to hate to see him go."

Meg clapped her hands in delight. "Erik and Christine are going to be so surprised!"

Madame Giry frowned, climbing into the seat next to her youngest grandson. "I know the two of you mean well, but I don't think this is a good idea."

"Of course it is!" Raoul gave a light tap of a whip on the horses' flanks. "They need a new horse. We have more than enough money to buy one and access to the highest quality breeders in all of France. He's better than any horse they'd find out here. What's not to like?"

"It's too soon."

"And how long do you suggest that they continue to rely on borrowed animals? Don't you think they'd appreciate the gift?"

Madame Giry just sighed and shook her head. "I just hope that you know what you are doing."

xxxx

Christine practically flew down the stairs when she heard the knock at the door. "Meg!" She threw her arms around her best friend. "It's so good to see you again! We started to think you weren't coming! Wasn't the train supposed to arrive at eight?"

Meg frowned. "It was. We ran into a bit of trouble along the way—nothing serious, but we were delayed for a few hours."

Christine pulled back, smiling down at the bulge in her friend's stomach. "Meg, look at you! Another already?"

Meg blushed. "Well, Christophe is fifteen now, and Henri is four, so…."

Christine laughed. "Time flies."

"We're hoping for a girl this time. I love the boys, but they can be a bit of handful." She tousled Henri's short brown locks.

"Girls are no easier," Madame Giry interrupted. "I should know, having practically raised the entire corps de ballet!"

"Madame Giry!" Christine embraced her foster mother.

The ballet mistress smiled. "Hello, my dear." Seeing Erik come down the stairs, she nodded. "Erik."

"Hello, Antoinette. Meg."

Meg smiled in acknowledgement but suddenly frowned when she realized that one member of the family was missing. "Where is Mélodie?"

"Not here," Erik answered. "She's been helping Madame LeBlanc edit the newspaper in exchange for printing some of her stories. The first issue with one of her pieces is due to come out near the end of the month. She's having a hard time trying to decide what to publish first!"

Madame Giry smiled. "I will have to tell Gaston. He would be proud."

"And happy to know that his typewriter is still being used," Erik teased.

Just then Christophe came running up from the barn, huffing and puffing and looking a bit windblown from the ride in. It took a moment for him to catch his breath, but he gave a polite nod to first Christine, then Erik. "Father says...Father says he'd like your help at the stables."

Erik was immediately suspicious. There was nothing Raoul could possibly need help with that Christophe wasn't old enough to do. He glanced at Madame Giry, but she merely offered him an apologetic look before quickly dropping her gaze. Erik raised an eyebrow.

"With what?"

Christophe shrugged. "I think he wants to ask you something about one of the horses."

xxxx

When Erik got to the barn, Raoul was nowhere in sight. The carriage was off to the side, the horses having already been unhooked and put up for a rest.

"Alright, de Chagny, what sort of game are you playing?"

When there was no answer, he stepped into the barn. The two mares had been temporarily put up in Toulouse's stall, seeing as the extra space typically available for visitors was currently occupied by Madame LeBlanc's horse. He supposed he could have put the gray mare in César's stall, but he just didn't have the heart to do it. To utilize the stall so soon after its occupant had died would have been disrespectful and degrading. Erik knew of many people who viewed horses as machines; to them, they were a means of transportation and nothing more, quickly disposed of and easily replaceable. But César had been a companion and dear friend, and Erik absolutely refused to let his memory fade so quickly, insisting that the stall remain empty for the time being. So it took him by surprise when a he noticed a flicker of movement in the shadows of the corner stall. When he approached to take a closer look, his breath caught in his throat. There, standing in César's stall, was…César! Or at least, a horse that looked very much like him. He was younger, of course, and a bit smaller. There was a tiny white star on his forehead that César had lacked. But in every other aspect, he seemed to be an exact replica of the deceased horse.

"Impressive, isn't he?"

Erik didn't have to turn around to know who it was. He swallowed thickly. "Get your horse out of my stall."

"You mean _your_ horse," Raoul corrected him.

Erik clenched his fists. "Don't insult my intelligence, de Chagny. That is not César. I buried him myself. I ought to know."

"No, but he is your horse. We bought him from the Marquis de Moreau. Christine mentioned that you were in need of a horse, and—"

"I didn't ask for your charity."

"Well, pardon me for attempting to be a good neighbor!" Raoul was becoming irritated. "You know, anyone else in your position would jump at the chance to own such a fine animal. His sire happens to be a two-time racing champion, and his mother is descended from the stock belonging to the king himself!"

Erik whirled to face him. "I don't _care_ about his pedigree! What I care about is that he is in _my_ horse's stall, which I had intended to remain empty. Now Get. Him. Out."

Raoul was incredulous. "Do you honestly still think that this is some sort of competition? That I'm a threat to you and your married life? Don't you think we're getting a bit old for such games?"

Erik strode toward him. "This is not about a competition, de Chagny!" He pointed a finger accusingly. "This is about _you_ being an insufferable, insensitive idiot!"

"Oh, for pity's sake! He was just an animal!"

Erik turned away. When he spoke, his voice was low, dangerous. "Get out of here, de Chagny, before I do something I'll regret."

"What did I—"

"GET OUT!"

Erik waited until Raoul was inside the house before he dropped to his knees in the hay.

xxxx

"Erik?"

Christine was headed toward the barn.

"Erik?"

She peeked inside.

"Over here."

In the corner to the far left, she saw him standing just outside of César's stall, leaning slightly over the door so that he could reach the horse inside. He ran his fingers over the dark, silky coat gently—almost reverently—reaching through a thousand memories to another horse in another place and time. If he didn't think about it too much, he could almost forget…but no. He didn't want to forget. He _couldn't_ forget. Not after all they'd been through together. No matter how painful the memories were, he refused to let them go. They were all he had left now.

Christine came up beside him, crossing her arms over the top of the gate and resting her chin where her hands met. They were both silent for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts. Christine was the first to speak.

"Raoul told me what happened. They were only trying to be helpful."

"I know." Erik traced the nameplate on the door with his finger, touching each golden letter with slightly more care than the one before it. "You know, every morning when I come to feed Toulouse, I…I half expect to see César in his stall. I know it's impossible, but…but when I saw this horse in his place, for a moment I thought…" He shook his head. "It was almost like none of it had ever happened. Like he'd never left." He went back to stroking the little gelding. "I just can't replace him, Christine."

"And no one is asking you to. Not in here," she placed a hand on his chest. "Not where it matters. But we do need a new horse, Erik. And if they are willing to give him to us then…."

"We should accept," he finished for her.

Christine looked up into her husband's eyes. "You know, when I was a little girl and I lost my father, it was one of the most difficult things that had ever happened to me. I thought I would never get over it, and in a way, I guess I never have. But things did get better—because I met you. You picked up where my father had left off, and helped fill the void in my heart. Over time, I came to love you just as much as I had loved my father—though back then it was not the same sort of love that I have for you now. That's not to say that I forgot about my father—or loved him any less—but I found someone I cared equally about who could help me through the pain. Does that make sense?"

Erik gave a silent nod. "Did they say if he has a name?"

Christine shook her head. "I think they were leaving that up to us."

There was a brief pause.

"Julius," Erik said. "In honor of César."

Christine smiled. "I think that's a perfect name."

Erik suddenly hopped over the gate. "Open the gate, Christine."

Christine unlocked the door but knit her brows in confusion. "Erik, what are you—"

He swung a leg over the gelding's back. "Seeing if he's as good as they say he is."

The moment the gate was open, the little gelding shot out like a racehorse. Christine laughed as the two of them blew past her. Yes, she decided, Erik and Julius were going to get along just fine.

xxxx

A few hours after Erik returned from his "test ride" with Julius, Mélodie came back from Madame LeBlanc's, her head filled with the latest news and ideas for yet another story. She was excited to learn about the newest four-legged addition to the family and insisted on taking him out for a ride. She was a little less than excited when the adults had insisted that someone accompany her and Christophe ended up being volunteered—though, admittedly, he wasn't particularly happy about the situation either.

He saddled one of the mares and got on, waiting for Mélodie to do the same. His eyebrows shot up in surprise when she leapt on bareback, throwing her leg over the gelding's back in a very unladylike fashion.

Mélodie looked mildly amused. "What? You've never seen a girl ride like this before? Or do all the pretty little rich girls ride side-saddle?"

"You're sure you won't fall off without a saddle?"

She glared. "I _do_ know how to ride, you know. In fact, I'll bet I could outride you any day."

He raised an eyebrow. "Is that a challenge?"

There was a mischievous gleam in her eyes. "I'll race you to the edge of the forest." A gentle nudge of her heels, and they were off.

Christophe followed suit, several meters behind. "Mélodie!" he yelled after her. "That's not fair, Mélodie! He's a _racehorse_!"

Mélodie glanced back over her shoulder, laughing. "Then I guess you'd better hurry if you want to catch up!"

xxxx

Sometime later that evening they arrived back at the barn. Mélodie reached the stables first, laughing breathlessly as she slid off the gelding's back. Christophe arrived a few seconds later, jumping off the mare's back with the ease of a practiced jockey.

Mélodie crossed her arms and smiled triumphantly. "I told you I'd win."

Christophe scowled. "I would have beaten you if it had been a fair race."

She twirled a loop of hair around her finger. "You're just jealous that I'm the better rider. If you'd paced her correctly, you still could have won."

"Well, I say we have a rematch. Tomorrow afternoon we'll run the race again—but next time _I_ get to ride the gelding."

"Done." She shook his hand. "But I'm still going to beat you."

They led the horses into their respective stalls. Christophe began removing the tack from the mare while Mélodie groomed Julius.

"It must be nice being able to ride all the time."

Mélodie frowned. "Don't you get to ride at home?"

He shrugged. "Not much. And not like this. There isn't nearly as much open land in Paris. Most of the riding we do is on flat race courses, and the jumps are all planned out. It's very predictable. There are a few cross-country races, but I don't get to ride in them very often."

Mélodie frowned. "It sounds awfully boring."

Christophe laughed. "I wouldn't call it _boring_. But isn't much of a challenge."

"But surely there must be lots of other interesting things to do in Paris – the Opera, for instance." She handed him a brush.

"The Opera _is_ fun, and there are a lot of nice stores, but most of the time I'm either busy with lessons or attending affairs with Father."

"But you get to meet all sorts of foreign dignitaries and have fancy dinner parties all the time!"

"They're more like business discussions than parties. It's all politics and property and who is eligible for marriage and who is getting married. It's actually rather dull."

Mélodie looked thoughtful. "If you don't enjoy it, why don't you just tell your Father you'd rather do something else?"

"It isn't that simple, Mélodie. I'm the future vicomte! I have a duty—a responsibility—to fulfill…whether I like it or not." He sighed. "If I could spend the rest of my life raising and racing horses, I would. But there are other things that must come first."

Mélodie frowned again. "It seems we both want what we can't have."

"You should come to Paris sometime. I could show you around, if you'd like."

She gave a frustrated sigh. "I've been trying to convince Papa to go for years, but he always manages to come up with an excuse—it's too dangerous or he's too busy or something…"

"Your father doesn't seem to be particularly fond of people in general. Maybe he just doesn't like the city. He's probably worried that someone would ask about the mask or make a rude comment about his face—or yours. "

Mélodie raised an eyebrow. "Someone like you?"

Christophe grimaced and looked down sheepishly. "Er—sorry."

She shrugged, frowning somewhat sadly. "You were only telling the truth."

Before Christophe had the chance to respond, Raoul entered the barn. "How was the ride?"

"It was fine," Mélodie answered. "Julius is a good horse."

Raoul looked confused. "Julius?"

She patted the black gelding's neck. "That's what Papa decided to call him."

"Ah. He didn't give you any trouble, did he?"

Mélodie giggled. "Julius or Christophe?"

Christophe frowned, pretending to be offended, which only made her laugh more. He couldn't figure out why, but he liked making her laugh.

Raoul turned to his son. "We'll be going back to the house soon, so I need your help hooking up the horses. Since you just finished riding Adèle, we'll give her the night off." He glanced back at Mélodie. "If it's alright, I'd like to borrow Toulouse for a bit. We'll bring him back tomorrow."

Mélodie nodded. She looked back at Christophe before preparing to go back inside the house. "So, tomorrow at the same time?"

Christophe smirked. "If you're not afraid of losing."

Mélodie rolled her eyes. "Good night, Christophe."

xxxx

The following morning started out much like any other. Mélodie got up, got dressed, ate an early breakfast with her father, and was out the door before the sun was up. Since the de Chagnys had borrowed Toulouse, she happily took the opportunity to show off César's successor. She arrived at Madame LeBlanc's at half-past seven—a few minutes earlier than normal since Julius seemed to enjoy going at a fast pace. Slipping off of his back, she led him over to the stables, taking a moment to give the other horses a pat on the neck or a scratch behind the ears before letting herself in.

"Good morning, Madame LeBlanc! You'll never guess what hap—oh! I'm sorry. I didn't realize you had company. I didn't see anyone else's horses at the barn, so I thought…."

"Good morning, Mélodie. Come in, dear."

The widow's typical cheery smile was enough to make Mélodie forget her unease at barging in on a private conversation.

The older woman gestured to the young man beside her. "This is William. His family recently moved into the old Seville place down the road—you know, the cottage about a mile east of here just across the railroad tracks? His father works during the day, and his mother has been too ill to do much as of late, so he's going to be staying with me for awhile—during the day, at least."

Mélodie studied the boy curiously. He looked fairly young—perhaps a year older than Christophe, but no more. He was tall and thin with arms and legs that looked a bit too long for his body and short black hair combed neatly to the side. His blue eyes looked strangely distant, as if he was staring at something across the room, but his smile seemed friendly enough.

She frowned. In such a small town, almost everyone knew everyone else, but she didn't remember ever seeing him in church or at any of the stores in town.

"It's very nice to meet you," she said politely. "I don't think we've met before. When did you move in?"

"No, I expect we haven't. We've been here a couple of months, but my father works a few towns over—he takes the train to work every day—and my mother and I don't get much." He spoke with an accent that she couldn't quite place.

She frowned again. "I see." She bit her lip. "Not to sound rude, but William doesn't seem like a very French name."

He laughed. "That's probably because it isn't. We moved here from England. Father moves a lot with his job. We actually lived in Paris for awhile, but I don't remember much. I was only five years old when we went back to England. Unfortunately, that means my French is a bit rusty."

It was obvious, too, the way he spoke slowly, haltingly. He knew the language well—that much was clear—but it had been a long time since he'd used it, and he seemed to occasionally struggle for the right word.

"I could help you, if you like," she blurted. "I know English fairly well, so I might be able to translate."

He looked mildly surprised. "You know English?"

"My father taught me. He knows a lot of different languages. I think they're interesting—well, not quite as interesting as writing, but almost."

"Ah, yes. Madame LeBlanc was just telling me that you're working on a column for the paper. I'd like to read it sometime."

"That reminds me," Madame LeBlanc interjected, "Jean Claude said that he'd be ready for your article next week, Mélodie. He thinks adding a creative piece to the newspaper is a brilliant idea. I've put the articles that need to be edited for tomorrow over on the table."

Mélodie blushed. "Well, I guess I'd better get to work. It was nice meeting you, William."

She held out her hand, slightly confused when he didn't respond until Madame LeBlanc gave him a little nudge.

"Oh, sorry!" He held out his hand where he thought hers might be until at last he felt it, shaking her hand awkwardly. "I should have explained…. I'm blind."

"Oh! I'm sorry. I didn't realize…."

He laughed. "It's alright. I'm honestly a little surprised you didn't notice. That's usually the first thing people ask."

Mélodie frowned. "You said you'd like to read my article, but how can you read if…?"

"Braille," he answered.

"What's that?"

"It's a sort of written language made of raised dots—invented by the French, actually. I have a typewriter at home that lets you print it like you would any other written document. I'll try to bring it sometime."

"Could you teach me?"

"I teach you Braille and you help me improve my French," he smiled. "That sounds fair enough."

Mélodie returned the smile. "It's a deal."

xxxx

Christophe was waiting by the barn when Mélodie arrived home. He leaned against the outside wall, arms crossed over his chest.

"You're late," he said irritably.

Mélodie led Julius into the stall. "Sorry. I met someone new today at Madame LeBlanc's, and we got to talking. I guess I lost track of time."

"You were supposed to be here _two hours_ ago! Now Julius will need a rest, and by the time he's ready to go, the sun will be down," he huffed. "Your parents were starting to get worried," he added.

If he was being completely honest, he'd been getting a little worried, too.

"I'm sorry. But Madame LeBlanc says I don't have to come to work tomorrow, so I'll have the day off if you still want to race…."

"Alright," he consented. "But you'd better not back out this time. So, who is this new person you met, anyway?"

"His name is William. His family is from England, but they moved here recently. He's about your age, I think. Maybe I can introduce you sometime."

"Does he like to ride?"

"I don't know. I'm not sure if he _can_ ride."

Christophe shrugged. "Well, I could teach him if he wants to learn."

"No, that's not what I meant. He's—well, he's blind."

"Oh. So, I take it he doesn't know about…." He pointed at the right side of his face.

Mélodie blushed. "No. Madame LeBlanc didn't tell him, and I didn't see any reason that he needed to know, so…." She shrugged. "I mean, it doesn't matter, right?"

"Are you afraid of how he'll react?"

She pursed her lips. "Well, I know how _you_ reacted, and then the gypsies…."

"I said I was sorr—wait. Gypsies? What gypsies?"

Mélodie shook her head. "Never mind. It's a long story, and I'm still not really sure I understand it."

Christophe raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything. "So…tomorrow, then?"

Mélodie nodded. "Tomorrow."

xxxx

The next day they set out early, tearing over the grassy, dew-soaked hills until the horses were breathless and the sun was high in the sky. They reached the edge of the forest almost simultaneously, and it was so close that neither one could really tell who had won.

"I told you I could beat you in a fair race!" Christophe beamed.

"You didn't beat me! We _tied_!"

"Are you mad? Julius was at least a nose ahead!"

"It didn't look like it to me."

"Well, I still think I won, but if you don't believe me, I'll just have to prove it to you on the way home."

Mélodie patted Adèle's neck. "We should let the horses rest for awhile first—or at least slow down." Her eyes drifted to the cool shade of the forest. "Why don't we take them for a walk in the woods?"

Christophe frowned. "I don't know, Mélodie. The forest marks the border of our land. Don't you think our parents would be upset we wandered off?"

"They never said we _couldn't_ go into the woods. And anyway," she reasoned, "we don't have to tell them where we went."

"I still think we should keep to the edge of the forest."

Mélodie rolled her eyes. "Fine, you stay here. _I'm_ going in there where it's cooler. If I'm not back in half an hour, come looking for me."

Christophe called after her. "Do you even know where you're going?"

When there was no answer, he sighed and followed after her. _Well, one of us has to be the responsible one_.

The moment they entered the woods, the temperature dropped, a thick canopy of oaks, hickories, and maples blanketing the forest floor in a layer of dappled shade and the previous year's leaves. As they meandered through the trees, Mélodie recalled the countless stories she'd read in which forests were dark, forbidden places—havens for wolves and outlaws and demons—and realized, somewhat to her disappointment, that in the real world, the woods were no more menacing or dangerous than anywhere else in the French countryside. In fact, if anything, she felt at peace, the natural beauty and tranquility of the place seeming to calm the tired horses and ease the tension of the silence, the crunching of the leaves beneath the horses' hooves the only sound for miles around them. As they wandered in further, the branches eventually became so low and so close together that both Mélodie and Christophe had to dismount to keep from being knocked off the horses' backs.

In fact, Mélodie was so absorbed in looking out for low-lying branches that she failed to watch where her feet were going and, catching the toe of her shoe on a stump, stumbled forward, landing on her hands and knees in the dirt.

Christophe peeked around the cinnamon-colored coat of the mare in front of him. "Are you alright?"

Mélodie stood, wiping the dirt from her hands on her dress. "I'm fine. I must have tripped on a root or something." She glanced back at the ground. "Hey, what's this?"

She got back on her knees and started pulling on what appeared to be an old piece of rope tied to a partially decomposed tree branch. She yanked on it a few times, causing the branch to crumble, and loosening the other end of it from a thin layer of topsoil. She gasped when she saw the loop at the end.

"Looks like a hangman's noose," Christophe observed. "Doesn't look like it's been used, though. Either that, or the body's been moved."

Mélodie had suddenly gone very pale, even the reddish lumps and bumps of her deformity uncharacteristically white. For a moment, Christophe feared she would faint. She ran her fingers over the rope, stopping when she came to the knot that had been used to tie it to the tree.

"Mélodie?" Christophe dared to wander closer, afraid that even the lightest touch would knock her over.

"This is my father's knot," she whispered.

Christophe frowned. "How can you tell?"

"He taught me how to tie it once. It's nearly impossible to undo once it's been tied unless you know the secret." She tugged on one frayed end, and immediately the knot slipped loose despite the fact that it had grown tight from years of exposure to the rain and the sun. "No one else knows how to make this knot—or at least, no one else that I know of. That's why he always uses it to tie the horses."

"Surely there's someone else in the world who is familiar with it?" Christophe suggested hopefully.

"Somewhere, yes. But here? So close to the edge of the de Chagny property? I don't think it's a coincidence."

Christophe laid a hand on her shoulder. "I'm sure whatever happened he had a perfectly good reason for doing it…."

But even in his own mind, it sounded like a hollow excuse.

"It doesn't make sense, though," Mélodie tried to reason. "When would he have had the time to do this without us knowing? And who would he have gone after?"

"Maybe he wasn't after anyone."

Mélodie looked confused.

Christophe shifted uncomfortably. "Your mother's letter mentioned that he went off by himself a lot after César died. Does he do that often when he's upset?"

"I don't know," Mélodie shook her head. "I've never seen him that upset before. Not in my lifetime."

Christophe frowned. "I wonder what changed? From what I understand, your parents only moved here about four years before you were born, so if it didn't happen in your lifetime, there's a very narrow window of time in which it could have taken place. What could have happened to make him that desperate?"

Mélodie froze, the rope suddenly going slack in her hand.

_Not in _my_ lifetime._

The gypsy's harshly spoken words came crashing over her.

_I do have to wonder how there came to be a _second_ Devil's Child…considering your own parents didn't even want you!_

She shuddered, raising a hand to her right cheek. "Me."

She looked up at Christophe, tear-filled eyes desperately pleading for him to prove her theory wrong. But he didn't know what to say. After a long pause, he shook his head.

"Mélodie, you're being irrational! Look, why don't we just ask him, and—"

"NO!" She dropped the rope and grabbed him by the front of his shirt. "You mustn't tell _anyone_ about this—especially not my father!"

"But Mélodie—"

"Promise me!"

Christophe frowned but eventually nodded. "I promise."

The ride back home was slow and silent. There was no mention of the race, no squabbling over who had won or who was the better rider. Mélodie inwardly cursed herself. She had gone into the forest in search of danger and dark secrets, and she had come out with more than she bargained for. The only problem was she didn't know whether she'd been given more questions to add to her diary or an answer that she really didn't want.


	13. William

**Chapter Twelve: William**

Mélodie stared at the paper in front of her. To most, it would have looked like nothing but a bunch of little dots, but William seemed to have no trouble deciphering the alien code, his fingers sliding over the page faster than she could keep up. He had allowed her to borrow his specialized typewriter so that she could print the article she'd written for the paper in a format that he could read. She could have simply read it aloud, she supposed, but William had insisted that using the typewriter would help her begin to recognize the different patterns of raised dots, which were also present on the keys beneath the corresponding letter. Further, by using the French spellings of words in the article, it would force him to remember how to read the language. It had seemed a reasonable enough request—the article wasn't terribly long, and at any rate, she found this new language to be more intriguing than anything she'd learned before, perhaps because it relied more on touch than on visual or verbal cues. She waited impatiently as William's fingers slid over the last letters, biting her lip as she waited for his reaction.

He smiled. "I like it. Your writing is very mature for someone your age. When is the next installment going to be in the paper?"

Mélodie let out a sigh of relief. She wasn't quite sure why his opinion mattered so much to her, but she was glad to have earned his approval. "It depends…. If it gets a good reception in tomorrow's paper, then I'll start putting in one installment each week. If not…well, I might not continue the story."

"I'm sure everyone's going to love it."

Mélodie blushed, thankful for not the first time that he couldn't see her expression. "Thank you." She frowned, suddenly, picking up the Braille copy of the article. "How in the world do you read this so quickly? I know the patterns visually now, but when I close my eyes and try to feel them, all the dots just seem to blur together."

William laughed. "I guess I'm just used to it. Since I've never been able to see, I don't really know what it's like to learn visually, so I _have_ to rely on touch. Usually I read even faster—when it's in English. You'll figure it out eventually. You just need some more practice."

He paused suddenly, as if he wanted to say something but thought better of it.

Mélodie frowned. "What?"

"Well…I know this is going to sound strange but…could I…could I touch your face?"

She panicked. "What? Why?"

"It's how we—blind people, that is—recognize others. Right now the only concept I have of what you look like is based on your voice, which aside from telling me that you're young and that you're a female, doesn't help much. Touching things is the closest I'll ever come to seeing them, and since we've known each other for a couple of weeks now, I'd really like to know what you look like—if you don't mind, that is."

Mélodie didn't know how to respond. "I…I'd rather you didn't. I-it's nothing personal," she added quickly. "It's just…my face isn't…well, it's not exactly normal."

Surprisingly, he smiled. "Being normal is overrated." He shifted his position so that he was leaning back against the sofa, arms folded comfortably behind his head. "You know, whenever someone finds out that I'm blind, they automatically feel sorry for me—even you apologized, I think. But things aren't always what they seem."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, what the world sees as a burden may really be a gift. My mother is a very religious woman—though you might not think so considering we haven't been to the church yet. Catholic beliefs are a bit different from those of the Church of England. We don't do confession through a priest." He paused. "How does that saying go again? '_Me blesser Père, car j'ai péché_'?"

Mélodie burst into a fit of giggles. "I think you mean '_Bénissez-moi Père, car j'ai péché_.' _Bénir_ means 'to bless.' _Blesser_ means 'to wound or injure.'" [1]

William grimaced. "Oops," he chuckled at his mistake. "Well, you know what I mean. Anyway, my mother used to tell me that God doesn't see like we do. While man looks on the outward appearance, God looks on our hearts. [2] She said that I was gifted because, by being blind, I was given the eyes of God, forced to look upon others' hearts rather than their faces. Maybe your deformity is a gift as well."

"How?"

He shrugged. "Sometimes people tend to judge others by their looks alone. But your friends are _real _friends—friends who love you for being you—not for what you look like."

Mélodie considered his words thoughtfully. In truth, very few people outside of her immediate family had seen her face given her father's adamant demand that she always wear the mask. She could understand his fear somewhat better now knowing what little she did about his time in the gypsy camp, and the reactions of some of the townspeople had greatly upset her. A few of the people she'd thought were their friends were _still_ shunning them like they had some deathly disease. Perhaps her father was right to require the mask...and yet…a person's face is a part of who they are. If she didn't show William her face now, she knew that she would always wonder about how he might have reacted.

She guided his hand slowly to her face, peeling back the mask just a tiny bit so that she could hurriedly replace it if Madame LeBlanc came in. She closed her eyes as the fingers drifted over her face.

"You said you can see people's hearts…. What does mine look like?" she asked hesitantly.

He smiled. "It's beautiful."

xxxx

Erik stared out the window as Mélodie walked Toulouse to the barn. It was getting dark outside and she'd just arrived home. She seemed to be getting home later and later these days. Perhaps it had something to do with the boy she'd been seeing, but he had a feeling that there was another reason she was staying away, as if she was intentionally avoiding him. He couldn't think of any reason why she would. They'd been on bad terms for awhile after the gypsy incident, but he'd thought they'd patched that up already.

He heard the door open.

"Mélodie?"

Mélodie bit her lip. "Oh. Hello, Papa. Is Mama still awake?"

Erik frowned. He couldn't help but feel slightly hurt at knowing that his daughter felt comfortable enough to share whatever was troubling her with Christine but not him.

"Yes, she's upstairs reading, I think."

Mélodie looked disappointed. "Oh."

He sighed. "Mélodie, you've been rather…distant…these past few days. Is everything alright?"

"Yes, Papa. Everything's fine." She was quick to change the subject. "Did I miss dinner again?"

He put his hands on her shoulders. "Mélodie, if there's something bothering you, then—"

"Nothing's bothering me."

"Did Christophe say something to you?"

"No, Papa." She squirmed under his scrutinizing gaze.

His eyes narrowed. "That boy, then? William?"

Christine had seen the early warning signs of innocent infatuation in their daughter's eyes, and Erik wasn't entirely sure how he felt about it. If someone could love his daughter the way Christine loved him, then by all means, he would be happy for them, but if that boy ever hurt her….

"NO!" She sighed. "Look, Papa, I'm really tired. Could we maybe…talk about this some other time?"

Erik was good enough at reading people to know that there was something she wasn't telling him—if not flat out lying to him. But whatever it was, she wasn't going to talk about it anytime soon. She had a temper almost as bad as his own, and he knew that if he pushed her, they'd either end up in a screaming match or she'd clam up for good—neither of which would be a particularly good outcome. So, for the moment, he relented.

"Alright. Did you want something to eat?"

"No thank you. I'm not really that hungry. I think I'm just going to go up to bed. Good night."

"Good night."

Sometime later that evening he heard her tiptoe down the stairs into the kitchen after she assumed he was asleep, and he racked his brain for anything that he could have possibly said or done to upset her. Perhaps her newfound feelings of young love had made her self-conscious of her face—embarrassed by her own appearance as well as his. True, she'd said the boy was blind, but it seemed to be the only logical explanation that he could think of, and if that was the case, then there was absolutely nothing he could do. And for the first time in years, he had to question why things had turned out the way they did.

_I've come to terms with my face, but why does she have to suffer? _

He waited for an answer but heard only silence.

xxxx

It had been nearly two and half weeks since the de Chagnys' arrival, and their summer vacation would soon be coming to a close. Raoul had spent the past three days away on business and would be coming back on the morning train. Christine and Meg had spent the week catching up, chatting like the old friends that they were, and Erik had confided in Madame Giry his latest fears about his daughter growing up.

But while Henri had been content to sit in the floor and play with his toys while the adults talked, Christophe was beginning to get rather bored. Despite the fact that he and Mélodie had never really gotten along, she was the closest thing he had to a friend—here or at home, for that matter. One would think that living in one of the largest cities in France he would have had plenty of friends his own age, but the reality was that while being the son of a vicomte had its perks, it also came with a lot of responsibilities and expectations. He had plenty of casual acquaintances, of course—his riding buddies and the young noble girls who were always trying to catch his eye—but they barely had anything in common beyond their parents' wealth or a common hobby. He had never realized how much he had come to depend on Mélodie as a source of entertainment—which in the past had usually meant harassing her until she either cried or ended up punching him in the face—until he found himself alone in a room full of adults who were happily chatting away with only his four year-old brother to talk to. Admittedly, for his age, Henri was quite smart, but holding a conversation with even the brightest of four year-olds is difficult when they have the attention span of a goldfish.

So when Mélodie _finally_ came down from her room—she'd been typing something nearly all morning—Christophe jumped up out of his seat and practically dragged her down the stairs, eager to get away from all of the adult conversation.

"Mélodie, _thank goodness_! If I have to endure one more minute of playing 'horsey' with Henri, I think I'll go mad!"

Mélodie smirked. "I thought you _liked _horses."

He gave an exasperated sigh. "Not when _I'm _the horse!"

Mélodie laughed. "Why, Christophe, I'm sure you make a lovely pack mule."

He crossed his arms. "Not funny."

"Then why are you smiling?" she challenged.

Christophe frowned. Had he been smiling? If so, he hadn't realized it. "Look, Mélodie, we've only got a few more days before I leave, but I am bored out of my mind. Will you go for a ride with me into town?"

"What's in town?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. I just thought it might be interesting. At any rate, it's better than staying here."

Mélodie brightened. "We could go by Madame LeBlanc's on the way, and I could introduce you to William."

Christophe groaned.

"What?"

"Nothing. It's just…he's all you ever seem to talk about these days. It's always 'William this' or 'William that' or 'Christophe, I can't wait for you to meet William.'"

"He's my friend," she said defensively.

"Well, so am I, but I don't hear you talking like that about _me_."

Mélodie was silent.

"We…we are friends, right?"

She thought a moment before nodding slowly. While a year ago she would have blatantly denied him as anything more than a pest, this new Christophe seemed to be a bit more tolerable, and—dare she say it—fun.

"Yes, I suppose so, but…."

He sighed. "Mélodie, you've been spending three or four days a week with William. Can't we just have fun like we used to?"

She grinned mischievously. "You mean when you used to insult me, and I used to beat you up?"

He frowned, looking mildly irritated. "Can we please just go already?"

Mélodie gradually smiled. "Alright. Just let me tell my mother where we're going."

xxxx

Thursday afternoons were always slow in town. Wednesdays were usually busy with people coming and going to the craft bazaar, and on Friday evenings, the little town was abuzz with those ready to celebrate the coming weekend. But Thursdays were always slow.

"So, we're here," Mélodie observed. "Now what do you want to do?"

The town was so small, you could tour every store in the village square in less than an hour. There was the bookstore, of course, and a few clothing shops, but aside from that, there was very little to do. She couldn't see why Christophe had been so adamant about going into town.

_He must have been REALLY bored_.

Then again, perhaps he had just suggested town because it was in the opposite direction from the woods. She shuddered. They'd been avoiding the woods at all costs after their recent unpleasant discovery. She still hadn't fully made up her mind whether he'd been trying to kill someone else or himself, but either way, the thought troubled her. She shook her head. She really didn't want to think about it. Thankfully, the sound of Christophe's voice interrupted her unpleasant reverie.

"What about the cobbler's? I could use a new pair of riding boots. These are getting a bit tight."

"Won't that be expensive?"

He shrugged. "I can afford it."

"Suit yourself," she said. "I'm going to go look in the bookshop."

Christophe rolled his eyes. "I doubt they've gotten anything new since Saturday."

"Well, it won't hurt to check."

"Alright. So…meet back here in an hour?"

"That should be enough time—unless Monsieur Desmarias starts talking about his days in the military again." She grimaced. "I might need you to come rescue me then."

xxxx

After nearly half an hour of scanning the shelves for new books and rescanning them for anything interesting she might have missed, Mélodie decided that she was tired of looking. Luckily for her, Alphonse had taken the day off, and his wife—who was much less prone to repeating stories of her youth—had taken over the store for the day. Their conversation was short and sweet, and after sending her regards to Erik and Christine, Madame Desmarias wished Mélodie well and sent her on her merry way.

Having finished early, Mélodie decided to take a walk around the square. There weren't very many people out today, so she was more than a little surprised when she rounded a corner and almost literally ran into a familiar face.

"William! What are you doing here?"

He shrugged. "Madame LeBlanc needed to pick up some things, and I decided to come with her. I wanted to see the town—well, not actually _see_ it, but you know…."

"Don't worry, you're not missing much."

"So, why are you here?"

"Christophe was bored and wanted to come into town, though I don't know why. It's not like it's really any more interesting than the house."

"Ah. The arrogant little spoiled brat. Yes, I remember you talking about him."

Mélodie blushed, hoping that Christophe wasn't anywhere nearby. William wasn't being rude—he was simply repeating what she'd told him.

"So…you want to go for a walk?"

"Well, I _was _hoping to tour the town." He gestured with a sweep of his hand. "Lead the way, mademoiselle."

She took his arm shyly.

They were just walking past the bakery with Mélodie describing her favorite pastries they made fresh on every Saturday when a couple of the neighborhood boys came rushing out, arms piled high with frosted goodies. They were in such a hurry that they slammed into the pair, tripping over William's cane in the process. The cakes went flying and the boys tumbling down, knocking Mélodie and William off their feet in the process so that they landed in a tangled heap of arms and legs and squashed jelly-filled pastries.

"Hey!" The older of the two boys glared at William. "Watch where you're going! Those goodies weren't free, you know."

Mélodie shoved the other boy off of her and angrily got to her feet. She knew these boys well enough to know that they were trouble, but her temper got the best of her. "_You_ ran into _us_! You're the ones who should be apologizing."

"Hey, why'd you need a cane, eh?" The first boy kicked the walking stick out of William's reach. "You got a broken leg or something?"

"Leave him alone!"

"Hiding behind your girlfriend's skirts, huh?" the second boy taunted. "Not very manly of you."

William was still fumbling for his cane when the older boy kicked him. Mélodie was irate. "Stop it! Can't you see, he's blind?"

"Well that explains why he'd fall for _you_. Let's see what's behind that mask…."

"Don't you dare," she growled.

"And what are _you _going to do about it?" he taunted.

Mélodie pounced, knocking the boy to the ground with the ferocity of an angry tigress. But while she might have beaten him if he'd been alone, she was no match for the two of them. Soon they were an angry pile of writhing arms and legs, tumbling over the sidewalk until at last they had pinned Mélodie to the ground. They were about to rip off the mask, when Christophe suddenly came up from behind, waving the blind boy's walking stick like a club and slamming it into one boy's back. Pretty soon he was on the ground with them. He wasn't the best of fighters, but if he'd learned one thing from Mélodie over the years, it was how _not_ to win a fist fight. And these boys hadn't learned that lesson yet. Five punches, seven kicks, and one body slam later, both boys were down—one pinned under Christophe's boot, the other under Mélodie's fists—and the moment they let up, the two boys ran for their lives.

Mélodie immediately pushed past Christophe and stooped to help William to his feet. She handed him the walking stick. "Sorry about that. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine." He attempted to brush the sticky filling from his shirt. "But I might have a hard time trying to explain to Madame LeBlanc and my parents why I'm covered in jam." He stuck a jelly-covered finger in his mouth and grinned. "Tasty, though."

Mélodie giggled.

"I wish I could have seen that fight. From the way it sounded, you know how to hold your own."

Christophe cleared his throat.

"Well, I did have some help," she said. "Christophe, this is my friend William. William, this is Christophe."

William stuck out his hand, still sticky from wiping his shirt. "Pleasure to meet you, monsieur. I've heard a lot about you."

Christophe made a face but reluctantly accepted the outstretched hand. He had a feeling he'd been offered the sticky hand on purpose. "Likewise."

_You have no idea how much _I've_ heard about _you.

A distant call from Madame LeBlanc interrupted any further conversation they might have had.

"Well, I guess I'd better be going." William offered a polite nod. "Mélodie." He looked to where he thought Christophe was and gave a mock salute. "Monsieur."

When he was out of earshot, Christophe looked back at Mélodie. "'Arrogant little spoiled brat'?" he asked.

Mélodie looked down. "You heard that?"

He folded his arms over his chest. "_Now_ who's doing the name calling?"

She ducked her head. "Sorry."

He turned to head back to the horses.

"Hey, Christophe?"

He looked back over his shoulder.

"Thanks."

He gave a half-hearted shrug. "No problem."

All the way back to the house, Christophe couldn't get two things out of his mind. One was how he was going to explain a black eye and a busted lip when his father got home. The other was how much he despised the name William.

[1] William is trying to say, "Bless me Father, for I have sinned." Unfortunately he gets his words a little mixed up, so it comes out "Hurt me Father, for I have sinned." XD Sorry if my French is off. I know some Spanish, but French isn't really my thing, so I had to rely on Google Translate. (And, yes, I realize if they were really in church, it would probably be spoken in Latin, but I needed a good pun to show how William's French is good but not perfect so….)

[2] Reference to 1 Samuel 16:7.


	14. Discovering the Phantom

**Chapter Thirteen: Discovering the Phantom**

Mélodie closed her eyes and ran her fingers slowly over the sheet of paper in front of her. After nearly two months of practice, she was finally starting to be able to recognize the raised patterns of dots without relying on her eyes. It was slow going, but even if she misread a few letters here and there, she could usually get the gist of what was written. She read the words aloud as she came to them.

"Dear Mélodie…You…are…a...fast…learner." She paused, smiling. "I think…you…are…ready…for…something…more…difficult…. I know…how...much…you…like…to read…so I…brought…you…a…surprise…. Love, William." She opened her eyes. "What kind of surprise?"

From beside her on the sofa, William pulled out a book from his satchel. It looked fairly old and somewhat tattered—as any much-beloved book does after repeated readings. The cover was plain except for a title written in Braille.

She carefully traced the bumps with her fingers. "The…Phantom…of…the…Opera…" The title certainly sounded interesting. "What's it about?"

"It's one of my favorite books. I thought you might have already read it, seeing as the author is French, but I brought it anyway, just in case. Are you familiar with the work of Gaston Leroux?"

She perked up, immediately interested. "Monsieur Leroux wrote this?"

"Yes, you know of him?"

Mélodie laughed. "I don't just know _of_ him! I know him personally! He's an old family friend." She frowned. "It's strange, though…I've never heard of this book before."

William's eyebrows shot up. "Really? Well, it was written before you were born, so…." He shrugged. "Supposedly, it's based on true events that happened at the Paris Opera House. It's about this man who lived in the catacombs beneath the opera house. He was horribly disfigured, so he hid himself away from the world." He paused, hoping that this part of the story wouldn't upset Mélodie, but when she didn't protest, he continued. "He had a magnificent singing voice, though, and he used it to gain access to a beautiful chorus girl by claiming to be her father's angel sent to give her vocal lessons. Anyway, he fell in love with her, but…well, I don't want to give too much away."

Mélodie considered his words carefully, the book in her hand feeling suddenly very heavy. A flicker of recognition passed over her eyes. _Didn't Papa say he met Mama at the Paris Opera House by acting as her private tutor?_ She wasn't sure she liked where this was going. _Well, you wanted answers, didn't you?_

"Mélodie?" William looked concerned. "Mélodie, have I upset you? I'm sorry. Perhaps I should have chosen a different book."

"No, no! I want to read it! I was just…thinking…." She took a deep breath. "Do…do they ever give the man a name?"

"Erik—though it's not his real name, I don't think. Leroux said they named the character after the man who composed the stage version of the story. I got to hear it once while we were living in Paris. I didn't understand exactly what it was about because I was so young, but the music was _astounding_. My mother used to play songs from the opera all the time, and I eventually taught myself how to play by listening to her." He paused. "You know, I think…I think the composer's last name was the same as yours, actually." He laughed. "You don't happen to know an Erik Gérard, too, do you?"

Mélodie swallowed hard, extremely thankful that Madame LeBlanc had gone upstairs to work on her portion of the editing. "Erik Gérard…is my father."

If it was possible for William to look more surprised, he did. "You've got to be kidding me? _The _Erik Gérard—the composer—is _your father? _And you've never heard of _The Phantom of the Opera_?" He shook his head. "I can't believe this! He was the original Phantom, you know—the first one to ever portray him on stage and—"

Mélodie frowned. "And what? William, what are you not telling me?"

William chose his words carefully. "Does…does your father…. Forgive me, but…does his face look like yours?"

"Yes…why?"

"And your mother…is her name, by any chance, Christine?"

Now it was Mélodie's turn to look surprised. "How did you know?"

"Impossible…" he whispered.

"William?"

He shook his head again. "It couldn't be…. He was supposed to have died the night of the fire…. They said they found his body."

Mélodie was becoming impatient. "William what _are_ you talking about?"

"There was a horrible fire at the Opera several years ago. The Phantom was supposed to have died in the flames, but if all you've said is true, then I think…."

Mélodie looked down at the book in her lap. She'd wanted answers for so long, and now it seemed she held the key to all her questions in her hand. "My father…is the Phantom of the Opera."

xxxx

Erik knocked on the bedroom door, noticing the soft yellow glow that still emanated from beneath the wooden frame. Mélodie had barely said a word to either him or Christine all evening, and he was becoming concerned.

"Mélodie? Are you still awake?"

When she didn't respond, he opened the door, half-expecting to find her asleep, so he was somewhat surprised to see her lying on her stomach with an open book on her pillow, running her fingers over the pages. She was so intent on her reading that she hardly noticed him enter the room, letting out a startled yelp when he touched her shoulder. She quickly shoved the book beneath the pillow, thankful that although her father knew many languages, Braille wasn't one of them.

"I didn't hear you come in," she explained.

His eyes darted to the pillow. "What are you reading?"

"Oh, just a book that William let me borrow. I started reading it at Madame LeBlanc's and couldn't put it down." She tried to smile, but it was a rather sad attempt. "I'm almost halfway through it."

It was nearly two in the morning, but she refused to stop reading until she had read the book from cover to cover. She needed these answers, even if she didn't like what they were telling her.

_How could Monsieur Leroux talk about Papa that way? I thought they were friends! The part about his face is obviously wrong, but…the rest of it makes sense. It fits with what Papa told Sapphira…but how could he do such horrible things? Everything I ever thought I knew about my family…was a lie._

A stubborn tear involuntarily slipped down her cheek, and she quickly looked away. She didn't want her father to see her like this. In fact, she wasn't really sure she wanted to see him at all right now.

Erik sat down on the bed. He sighed. "Mélodie, this has to stop. Ever since you started seeing that boy, you've been coming home late, avoiding your chores…. You've hardly spoken to your mother or me at all over the past few days, and when you do finally say something, it always relates back to him."

He paused. He knew well enough what it was like to be in love. He could hardly blame her for being a bit obsessed with this 'William' after all he had gone through with Christine, but something was definitely upsetting her, and if he had anything to do with it….

"Mélodie, I don't want you seeing him anymore."

"What? No! Papa, I—"

"I know you're helping Madame LeBlanc, but you're just going to have to wait to get your next installment published until _after_ he's gone back to living with his parents."

"Papa, this isn't about him! He has nothing to do with it! He's a good boy…and a good friend. You'd know that if you ever paid any attention to anything I said! How can you say he's a bad influence on me when you've never even met him?"

That gave Erik pause. Didn't he hate it when others judged him based on gossip and appearances alone? Was he not condemning this boy to the same fate which he had suffered from the townspeople—had suffered his entire life?

"Alright," he said.

Mélodie blinked back a few more tears. "What?"

"I said alright. I'll give him another chance, but first, I want to meet him."

xxxx

Christophe paced the floor in his room. They'd returned to Paris several weeks ago, but he still hadn't quite gotten back into the swing of things. At the country house, he'd been free to go riding nearly every day, racing up and down the hills like a hunter on his steed. It was an escape from reality, a brief foray into a world of wishes and dreams that he knew would never come true. It was ironic, really; he had enough money to buy anything his heart could possibly desire—the fastest horse, the finest riding boots, the smartest saddle—and yet it could not buy his freedom. It couldn't buy the wind in his hair or the sun on his face or the smell of the rain on an open field. It couldn't buy the sound of a horse's heavy breathing or the heartbeat of hooves pounding over ground or the blood rushing through his veins. And money, he realized, truly could not buy happiness.

He sighed. Just yesterday he'd gone riding with the sons of some of the other French noblemen for the first time since they'd arrived back home. He'd been excited at first, ready to tear across the ground as if he hadn't ridden in ages. But the track was smooth and the land was flat, and the scenery is hardly interesting when you're riding around in circles. It had been fun, he admitted, but something had been missing. Something had been off. And suddenly he'd found himself itching for rugged terrain and muddy boots and blonde curls dancing in the wind.

He frowned. Where had _that_ come from? He'd never missed Mélodie before—in fact, he was usually glad to be rid of her (and he was sure the feeling was mutual). He didn't see any reason why this year's vacation should have been any different.

_Ungrateful little brat,_ he thought. _I took the blame for that fight, and she didn't even thank me…just looked at me like I'd gone completely mad!_ He shook his head. _She was probably too busy daydreaming about _William_ to care. _He rolled his eyes, frustrated with himself. _So she likes him…so what? Why does it matter to you? You could have any girl you want._

But Mélodie was not just any girl. She was stubborn and improper and rude. She had the curiosity of a housecat and the temper of a lioness. She was outspoken and insubordinate and, if he was being honest, not particularly attractive—well, at least, not the one side of her face. The rest of her was just starting to mature into the curves of a young woman, and he could imagine that if the right side of her face had matched the left, she would have been a very beautiful girl. He himself had insulted her enough to last a lifetime, and he could only imagine how hard it must have been for her to grow up knowing that she would never be as attractive as her peers.

But she hadn't let any of that stop her. Neither her face nor her father nor the limitations of living in a small town had stopped her from chasing her dream. She was already getting published—admittedly, on a small scale, but it was a start. And where was he? Still talking politics over tea and enduring lessons for a life he cared nothing about.

It was then he decided that the life of a vicomte was not for him, and it was then that he realized—with a bit of a shock—that he was falling in love.

xxxx

"No."

"Yes."

"Absolutely not."

"Why?"

"It's out of the question."

Mélodie put her hands on her hips. "You're afraid, aren't you?"

"Yes! No! Well, yes, but not of him."

She cocked her head. "What, then?"

William gave a frustrated sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look, Mélodie, I don't mind meeting your father. In fact, after our discussion yesterday, you've gotten me rather intrigued, but I can't just up and leave."

Mélodie shrugged. "So tell Madame LeBlanc where we're going. She won't mind."

"What if my parents come back for me, and I'm not here? How do you think that will look? Can't he just come here?"

"And if a certain book comes up in discussion, do you really think this is the best place for it to happen?" She sighed. "William, you're my best friend. I don't want to lose you. Please come with me…."

"Well…." He smiled slowly. "I suppose it isn't _every_ day you get the opportunity to meet Monsieur le Phantom himself."

"So…you'll come?"

He nodded. "I'll come. Besides," he added, "as long as I'm back before dark, they'll never even know I was gone."

xxxx

Mélodie led the way down to the barn, absentmindedly kicking pebbles out of the way and humming a few bars of one of the songs her father had been practicing all week for the coming Sunday service. She frowned. _The Phantom leading a church choir?_ The idea seemed preposterous. And yet, she still wasn't quite sure quite how much of Leroux's story was fact and how much was fiction.

When they stopped in front of the stall with Toulouse, William bit his lip. "Erm…you _do _realize I've never actually ridden a horse before."

"Don't worry. Toulouse is the horse I learned to ride on. He can be a bit spirited, but he's never thrown anyone before. Here." She led Toulouse out of the stall and put a stepstool on the ground beside him. "Just take a step up with your left leg and throw your right leg over his back."

She took his walking stick and laid it aside, giving him a hand up and guiding him into the correct position.

"Wow," he said, "I'm glad I can't see how far away the ground is right now. I feel much taller up here."

Mélodie laughed, handing him his cane and hopping up so that she was seated just in front of him. She nudged Toulouse forward into a slow walk.

"Now, just keep your arms around me so you don't lose your balance. See? It's not so bad."

Walking at this rate, it would take forever for them to get home, but Mélodie was hesitant to speed up for William's sake.

He laughed. "This is amazing. Can we go any faster?"

"You sure you're ready? This _is _your first day riding."

"Come on, Mélodie," he teased. "Where's your sense of adventure?"

That was all it took. Mélodie smirked. "Hold on."

And they were off.

xxxx

Erik was in the middle of one of his compositions when he heard the sound of hoofbeats coming up beside the house. He glanced briefly at Christine, who had been reading quietly on the sofa.

"Were you expecting anyone?"

She frowned. "No."

They both looked at the door. Unexpected visitors were usually few and far between this far out in the country. Moreover, it was a Wednesday morning, which meant that most people were either working or buying goods in town. Someone visiting at this time of day could only be the bearer of bad news.

Christine hesitantly got up and went over to the window while Erik headed upstairs for the mask and wig. Bad news or not, he wasn't about to show his bare face to whatever company they might have. Halfway up the stairs, he heard Christine let out a soft gasp.

"Erik! Erik, come here! Look!"

He reluctantly turned back. "What is it?"

"Mélodie's home early." She smiled. "And it appears she brought a friend with her."

The moment Erik pushed back the curtain, he knew his little girl was in love—even if she wasn't quite old enough to realize it herself. He recognized the warmth in her eyes, the way she laughed, the way she couldn't stop smiling. And William might have been blind, but he was no fool. Erik hadn't failed to notice the way the boy had had his arms wrapped around her waist as they'd galloped toward the barn. True, at that speed he needed to hang on, but Erik had a feeling it wasn't really necessary for him to hold her quite _that_ close. He frowned disapprovingly.

Christine raised an eyebrow. "Now, Erik, you know you held me _much_ closer than that the first time we met in person."

"You were also a bit _older_ than Mélodie at the time."

She crossed her arms. "Not by much," she countered playfully. "And there you were, nearly twenty years my senior and embracing me like only a husband should. And _then_ to put me in your bed!" She shook her head. "Naughty!"

Erik's expression softened to an amused grin. "_You_ were the one who fainted into my arms."

Christine stuck out her tongue childishly, and Erik laughed. He kissed her briefly on the lips.

"Well, I couldn't just let you fall."

"You _do_ certainly know how to sweep a girl off her feet."

"Oh, really?" Erik quirked an eyebrow. "You mean like this?"

In an instant, he'd scooped her up off the ground, one arm supporting her back, the other beneath her knees.

"Erik! Erik, put me down! No, no, no!"

She let out a high-pitched squeal as he started to spin her around, laughing with breathless delight as he finally deposited her on the sofa, leaning over her in a manner that would have been most inappropriate if they hadn't been married. A knock at the door brought them both back to reality, and Christine blushed, realizing the impropriety of being caught in such a position by their own daughter. Erik winked and gave her a quick kiss on the forehead. Before standing, he brushed his lips against her ear.

"I win," he whispered.

xxxx

William didn't know whether he should be excited or slightly nervous about meeting the infamous Phantom and well-renowned composer. It was as if his favorite story, which he'd assumed to be primarily fictional with only a smattering of facts, had suddenly come to life, and he was getting the chance to meet the title character himself! That in and of itself was a bit intimidating. Combine that with the fact that said character was known for being extremely protective of his loved ones and that said character also happened to be the father of the girl he was quickly falling for, and it could spell disaster. However, he didn't have long to ruminate on such thoughts, as the door was soon opened, and he was left standing under the scrutinizing gaze of the Phantom. He couldn't _see_ Erik, of course, but he could feel the confident, collected presence of someone who was clearly evaluating him. In truth, he felt a bit like a small mouse being sized up by a cat, but he knew well enough that predators can sense fear, and if Erik detected his discomfort, he could easily exploit it. So William did what he thought would be the most appropriate thing to do when meeting a girl's father for the first time; he put on his best smile, stuck out his hand, and introduced himself.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, sir. I'm William Travingston."

Erik accepted the handshake, and William was slightly surprised to find that his hands were actually much warmer and thicker than the cold skeletal hands he'd been expecting. His voice, however, was just as smooth and entrancing as Leroux described. He could easily see why, having never seen the face that matched the voice, Christine could have been fooled into believing that the man was a heavenly being.

"Yes, I've heard a great deal about you. When did your family move here?"

"About four months ago."

"I see. And you've not been to town in all that time?"

William bit his lip. He wasn't sure if Erik knew about the fight or not but decided it was better not to bring it up. "Once or twice, but my parents prefer to keep to themselves, and Madame LeBlanc doesn't go into town very often."

Erik noticed his hesitance but said nothing. If he was being honest, this inquisition was making him just as nervous as poor William. Even though the rational part of his mind told him that William couldn't see his face, it felt strange to be meeting someone for the first time without the protective shield of his mask. Furthermore, he knew how to be an Opera Ghost, but he was still learning how to be a father. This was the first time his daughter had ever shown any interest in a boy, and although he wanted to protect her from the pain of unrequited love, this boy seemed to genuinely care for her as well. And he didn't know whether he liked that or not.

Thankfully, Christine was there to break the tension. She laughed light-heartedly. "You'll have to excuse Erik. He's not always like this. He's just not used to having to share his little girl." She shook William's hand.

He gave a polite nod. "Madame."

"Call me Christine." She smiled. "Now, I think that we've been standing in the doorway long enough. Why don't you come in and have a seat?"

While Christine went into the kitchen to prepare a few finger sandwiches and tea, Mélodie led William into the sitting room with Erik following closely behind. He took a seat in the armchair while they took the sofa.

"So tell me, William, what does your father do for a living?"

"He works at a factory a few towns away. That's why we moved here from England. The factory where he had been working closed down, and most of the other factories nearby were already full and were turning people away. He heard they needed more workers over here, so," he gave a wave of his hand, "here we are."

Erik considered his words thoughtfully. "Mélodie tells me you've been teaching her to read Braille in exchange for her helping you with your French, but you don't seem to have much of a problem conversing fluently—a bit slowly, perhaps, but fluently."

"Thank you, sir, but I still need a lot of practice. Mélodie is doing well with her reading, though." He pointedly decided not to mention just exactly _what_ she had been reading. "She actually typed a few of her articles in Braille for me so that I could read them. Her work is very impressive."

"It's certainly something she enjoys." Erik paused. "Do you have any such hobbies?"

"Well, I'm not much of a writer, but I do enjoy music. Mélodie told me that you were a composer. I believe I've heard a few of your pieces. They were quite good."

"Do you play?" Erik asked.

"A little. My mother used to play all the time, and I taught myself to play by listening to her."

"Would you mind playing something for us now?"

Mélodie flushed. "Papa, don't ask him to—"

"It's alright, Mélodie," William assured her. "I don't mind."

Erik stood to help him over to the piano. He was surprised when the boy winced when he grabbed his upper arm. Erik frowned.

"Sorry," William apologized, "it's just a bit bruised. I…fell down the stairs," he admitted sheepishly. "It happens when you can't see where you're going."

William just laughed it off, but Erik remained quietly skeptical, answering with a thoughtful "Hmmm."

As he took his seat at the piano, William turned back to Erik. "What should I play?"

"Play whatever you like. I'm just curious to hear you."

He paused for a moment, trying to decide what would possibly be suitable to play for a musical genius. He considered playing one of Erik's own compositions but decided against it when he realized that doing so would significantly raise the bar of Erik's expectations and might possibly reveal that he knew more than he was letting on. Eventually, he seemed to reach a conclusion, and having made up his mind, slowly began to play. [1]

The notes started out soft and simple, gradually growing louder and more complex over time, weaving in and out of emotions with the mere touch of a key, happiness and love tinged with longing and regret—emotions that Erik knew well enough to recognize without any lyrics to assist him. It wasn't an especially difficult melody; in fact, despite the slightly melancholy air of the tune, it was really quite innocent and childlike—a quality that his own work had never possessed—and the boy played with such feeling that he had little doubt the music was heartfelt.

But while he was impressed with the child's ability—especially given that he had apparently memorized the whole thing—the fact that a boy so young should be able to express such emotions so fully gave him pause. Of course, it was possible that he was simply a very talented musician, capable of infusing whatever emotions were necessary into the piece at hand—an actor of sorts who could breathe life into an instrument the way Christine had once brought life to her characters on stage—but the bruises on his wrists dancing in and out from behind the edges of his sleeves seemed to tell a different story.

At long last, the music came to a close, and William turned to where he assumed Erik was still standing, waiting anxiously for his reaction.

"Impressive," he said, "but I don't believe I'm familiar with that piece. Who wrote it?"

"I did."

Erik was immediately interested. "Really?"

William shrugged. "It's just something I've had floating around in my head for awhile. My mother usually writes the notes down for me, but she's been rather ill, so I haven't had the chance to put it on paper yet." He hesitated. "Do you think it's worth keeping?"

"Absolutely, but if I may make one _slight_ criticism…?"

"Of course."

"While your skill is exceptional, your posture is a bit off. Try sitting up a bit straighter, and keep your head up. It will improve your playing."

From that point on, Erik and William were at ease with one another, and the remainder of the afternoon was spent playing various renditions of their favorite songs, discussing the best and worst composers of the age, and debating whether England or France held the title of Europe's most culturally sophisticated nation in the realm of music. Once, to William's utter delight, Erik and Christine even sang a short duet to one of the songs he played.

But Mélodie watched the entire affair with a strange mixture of emotions stirring within her heart. That William had been accepted by her family was undoubtedly true—and for that, she was grateful. But music, although pleasurable, was not something she was particularly skilled in, and she inevitably felt like a bit of a third wheel, lost and forgotten in the background while everyone else played and sang and had a good time. And, to be honest, she felt just a little bit jealous. She knew well enough that her father was not one to take easily to people, and the fact that he had become comfortable so quickly with a boy he barely knew while she struggled to maintain his approval was more than a little upsetting. She sighed. Well, at least they were getting along. And no one had mentioned the Phantom. Yet.

Her mind wandered back to the forest, to the hangman's noose she was now almost certain had once belonged to him. She hadn't told William about that bit, and it was troubling her now more than ever. Now that she knew what he was capable of and what lengths he had been willing to go to in order to win her mother's affection, she didn't doubt that he would have used it. The thought turned her stomach. _My father isn't a killer!...Is he?_ _He admitted to killing the gypsy, but that was more of self-defense, right?_

Mélodie didn't know the answer. For all the ways she tried to justify his actions or make sense of what he'd done, she simply couldn't seem to come up with a satisfying answer. And while she knew that he had never been particularly fond of the vicomte, thinking of the two men actually trying to kill one another troubled her greatly. And to think the vicomte was almost her father! Mélodie tried to imagine how things might have gone differently if she'd been born into nobility and wondered what she might have been like. For starters, she wouldn't have to wear that horrid mask all the time, and she would have, in all likelihood, been living in Paris—_Paris!_ Of course, that would also mean that Christophe wouldn't exist…or perhaps he would be her brother. She made a face. _That_ wouldn't have been very pleasant…although he had been strangely nice to her this past trip, and thinking back on it, she had rather enjoyed his company. He had apologized for his earlier behavior and even defended her when necessary, going so far as to take the blame for the fight—an act which had thoroughly surprised her. Perhaps he was _finally_ growing up.

But getting back to the matter at hand, she had to wonder why her mother had decided to stay with the Phantom. At the end of Leroux's novel, she had left with Raoul—the choice that, in all honesty, Mélodie felt she _should_ have made. Not that she didn't love her father, but under the dire circumstances of the situation at the time, she didn't see how any woman in her right mind would have chosen to return to him. Loving someone despite their looks was one thing; loving them despite their sins was an entirely different matter. But something must have changed. Something must have happened between the end of the novel and the beginning of her life that had made a profound impact on Erik and Christine's lives. There was a significant piece of the puzzle that was still missing, and she was dying to know what it was.

The only problem was that Erik wouldn't talk about it—of that she had no doubt. Not that she would have asked him anyway, but it really wouldn't have mattered. Erik had never been one to openly talk about his feelings. He preferred to stew over them in his mind, his only relief coming in the form of those terrifyingly angry or achingly sorrowful songs that would fill the house, letting anyone within earshot know that he was not to be disturbed. And, she supposed, that was one thing which she had unfortunately inherited, but while he poured out his emotions in music, she poured hers out on paper. And that was why communication for the two of them had always been difficult. They spoke two different languages, and neither understood the other well enough to appreciate whatever joy or pain the other was experiencing.

Mélodie frowned. She loved her father, and he'd told her repeatedly that he felt the same. But if that was true, then why had he been hiding behind so many lies? Why didn't he trust her enough to tell her the truth? She would have been disappointed, she admitted, to hear him tell of all that he'd done, but hearing secondhand information from a book that was labeled as fiction hurt much worse. She sighed. She didn't know what to believe anymore.

xxxx

It was nearing sunset when William announced, a bit worriedly, that he had better be getting back, his only cue to the time having been Christine's comment on the beauty of the sunset.

"What's it like?" he asked somewhat wistfully. "What does it look like to see a sunset?"

For while he had a pretty good idea of what physical objects looked like, intangible things like the sky remained a mystery.

Christine had thought for a moment before responding. "It's…it's as if someone has set the sky on fire—not a bad sort of fire, mind you, but the sort of cozy fire of a cold winter's evening. That sort of fire."

William smiled. "It sounds lovely." He sighed. "You know, most of the time, I don't mind being blind. I've never been able to see, so I don't really feel like I'm missing anything. But I do wish I could see a sunrise or a sunset." He paused. "I really should be going soon, though. My parents will be expecting me to be at Madame LeBlanc's, and if I'm not there…."

Erik had a feeling that at least one of his parents would give him more than just a lecture if he wasn't back on time, and the thought made his blood boil. But for the moment, he needed his head to be clear and so he shook off the feeling to focus on the current problem. He turned to Mélodie.

"Mélodie, take William out to the stables and start getting the carriage ready. I'll be out in a moment."

The moment the door closed behind them, Erik let it all out. "Christine, that boy is being abused."

"You don't know that."

"Did you not see the marks on his wrists?"

"He said he fell down the stairs."

"Stairs do not leave fingerprints," he growled. "Christine, I've been in his situation before. Don't tell me I don't know what I'm looking at."

"But if that were the case, why wouldn't he tell someone?" she protested.

"Either he's afraid or he's protecting someone."

She sighed. "Erik, I know you mean well, but this is _not_ your place. You are not the law, and there is nothing _legal_ that we can do about it aside from contacting the police, which would put you and all of the rest of us in danger."

"Christine, I love you, and I never want to put you at risk, but I refuse to sit back and allow someone else to suffer as I have."

"What are you going to do?"

"First, I'm going to see if I can get the boy to talk. Then I'm going to pay a visit to Monsieur Travingston."

"Erik…."

"I won't kill him," he assured her. "But if I find another mark on that boy, I swear, whoever has been doing this is going to _wish_ they were dead." He started heading for the door.

"Erik, please—"

He breathed a ragged sigh, trying to control the intense wave of emotions that he'd been fighting all day. "I said I wouldn't kill anyone. I can make no further promises than that."

xxxx

When Erik arrived at the barn, the horses were ready to go, and William was already perched inside with Mélodie in the seat beside him. Erik frowned.

"Mélodie, why don't you go help your mother with dinner while I take William home?"

"Can't I come with you?"

Erik said nothing, but the stern look on his face was enough to let her know that his suggestion had not been a mere request. Under normal circumstances, she might have tested him, but with William present, she thought it best not to argue and reluctantly slipped out of the seat, wishing him a goodnight and promising to be back at Madame LeBlanc's again the following day.

Shortly after Mélodie left, Erik moved the boy to the front seat. He waited until they were out on the road to speak, the soft clip-clop of the horses' hooves against the dirt the only sound to break the quiet still of the evening.

"You didn't fall down the stairs, did you?" It was more of a statement than a question.

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence.

"Please don't say anything. If he finds out I've told someone—"

"Who?"

William sighed. "My father _does_ work at a factory, but there weren't as many open positions as he originally thought. They've been laying off workers and making him leave early, so he's been home more than usual lately. My mother sent me away to Madame LeBlanc's under the pretense that I was getting 'private tutoring'—and in a way I suppose I was—so my father wouldn't question it. She didn't want me to be home with him any more than was absolutely necessary. I would have preferred to stay with her, but…well, it's not like I could do much good in the way of protecting her."

Erik nodded thoughtfully. "Mélodie said your mother was ill."

"We thought she was, but…later she found out that she was with child." William could scarcely believe that the man in the carriage beside him was, indeed, the infamous Opera Ghost, much less that he was telling him something he'd never told another soul. He lowered his voice. "She lost the baby a few days ago."

Erik considered this silently. He knew from experience how hard it had been for Christine to deal with a miscarriage. That in and of itself was bad enough. But to know that this woman's own husband was in all likelihood responsible for her losing the child…. He felt his grip on the reins tighten.

"He blames her, you know," William continued. "He blames her that I was born the way I am. He's ashamed of it, I think. That's why he doesn't like for me to go out in public very often." He shrugged. "It doesn't bother me that much, but…I just don't want her to get hurt anymore."

They rode the rest of the way in silence. When they pulled up in front of Madame LeBlanc's, they parted on good terms, each quietly pondering the other's secret and knowing that it was only a matter of time before their own personal demons resurfaced.

[1] The song that William plays is the instrumental version of Ron Pope's "A Drop in the Ocean."


	15. Confrontation

**Chapter Fourteen: Confrontation**

It had been a week since William's visit to the Gérard family household, and Erik had yet to figure out how he could possibly get the boy's father alone. From what William had told him, the man was typically out for most of the day but always returned directly to the house, his only stop going by Madame LeBlanc's to pick up his son. Approaching the man in town would be too risky, and attempting to confront him within his own home would be unfair to William and his mother, forcing them to take sides against their own father and husband. So he decided, after much consideration, that he would simply lie in wait.

He wasn't certain of the exact time of the man's departure, but he knew that William was always at Madame LeBlanc's before Mélodie ever arrived, and he knew the only pathway into town from the old widow's house. All that remained was to put his plan into action.

xxxx

Christophe knocked anxiously on the door to his father's study.

"Enter." Raoul glanced up from his work, somewhat surprised to see his son standing in the doorway. He frowned. "Christophe, is everything alright?"

The boy dropped his gaze to the floor. "Father, I…I need to talk to you."

The vicomte immediately set the papers he'd been signing aside, noting the worried look on his son's face, and gestured for him to take a seat.

Christophe stepped closer to his father's desk but did not sit down, closing the door to the study behind him. He took a deep breath.

"Father, do you remember a few years ago when we went to the Grand Steeple-Chase de Paris?"

Raoul looked confused. "Of course. You seemed to really enjoy it and took up riding shortly afterward. It's already been run for this year, but if you'd like for us to go again next year, then—"

"I want to ride in it."

The vicomte sighed. "Christophe…"

"No, wait! Just…just hear me out. I know I'm too young right now, but maybe in a few years I could—"

"Christophe, the Grand Steeple-Chase isn't just one of your friendly little competitions. It's a _real_ race. It requires training and—"

"Then let me be an apprentice."

"You're _already_ apprenticing to become the future vicomte. Christophe, I know that you enjoy racing, but it'ss not the place of a nobleman to be cleaning out stables. You have responsibilities…obligations…." He stood and walked over to the boy, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Christophe, one day I'm not going to be here anymore, and I need to know that the estate is in good hands."

Christophe swallowed hard. He couldn't quite bring himself to look his father in the eyes. "Father, I know that…that being the future vicomte is an honor…and I am glad to know that you are confident enough in my abilities to place the future of the estate in my trust…" He drew a shaky breath and closed his eyes, afraid to see his father's reaction. "But perhaps that honor could be more greatly appreciated by my brother."

Raoul slowly returned to his chair, stunned to silence by his eldest son's words. After an agonizing moment of silence, he found his voice.

"Christophe, giving up your title is not something to be taken lightly."

"I know. That's why I've given it a lot of thought and waited until now to tell you."

He rubbed his temples. "Did Mélodie talk you into this?"

"No. She just…made me realize what I've been wanting to say for a long time."

"You've grown fond of her," Raoul observed.

Christophe tried to hide the blush that was creeping up his cheeks. "Yes," he admitted. "Perhaps someday…someday, I'd like to court her. Not now, of course, but maybe when she's older…."

"You're too young to know what love is," he clipped. He neglected the fact that Christine had been only a year older than Christophe when she'd gotten caught up in a very serious love triangle of sorts.

He bit his lip. "Maybe…but what if I'm not?"

"You could never marry her, Christophe."

"Why? Because she's a commoner? Wasn't Mother a ballet dancer before you married her?"

"It's not her social status that concerns me. She'd attract unwanted attention here. You'd have to leave Paris—possibly leave France—forever."

Christophe was becoming upset. Though he'd made fun of her face often enough, hearing an adult—his own father!—speak so harshly of her somehow irritated him.

"You'd banish me for marrying her? Because of her face?"

Raoul stood, turning so that his back was to his son. "Christophe, you don't understand! Visiting the Gérards is dangerous enough. By openly associating with her here in Paris you could be putting her very life at risk!"

Christophe looked shocked. "What?"

The vicomte sighed deeply. "Call your mother in here. There's something we need to discuss. Something we should have told you a long time ago…."

xxxx

Mélodie rolled over, readjusting the covers and attempting to fall asleep. But the moment she closed her eyes, she was assaulted with a thousand different thoughts. Images and words from the story that she'd read kept playing over and over in her mind, her overactive imagination conjuring up the glazed eyes of a dead Joseph Buquet, his mouth forever open in a silent scream, or the frightened faces of the audience as the chandelier came crashing down, sending the Opera House up in flames. There had been no fire in the book, of course, but according to William there had definitely been one at some point in time. She sighed and flipped over again, unable to shut off her mind and simply rest. It had been this way nearly every night since she'd finished reading that horrible, horrible story!

It wasn't horribly _written_, mind you. In fact, the story itself would have been quite enjoyable…if it hadn't been true. The man she knew and loved was nothing like the Opera Ghost, and under normal circumstances she would have dismissed the whole idea of them being one and the same as utter nonsense…but the evidence was piling up. The mask that he wore into town, the way her parents had met, their association with the de Chagny family—even the characters' _names_ were the same! It had to be true, and yet she desperately wished that it wasn't. The thought of her father—the man who had sung her to sleep and taught her ride and carried her on his shoulders—committing such heinous crimes sickened her.

And then there was the rope they'd found in the forest.

In all her years, she'd never heard her father openly complain about his face. It was what it was, and that was all there was to it. There was a glaringly obvious lack of mirrors in the house, of course, and the way he shied away from the pond to avoid looking at his reflection was almost comical. But he had never said a word about it out loud. In fact, aside from his requiring her to wear the mask into town, they'd never even discussed their inherited flaw. Mélodie had just accepted things as they were. Growing up with a father with her same condition in a town that had no qualms with the mask had made her feel essentially "normal," and she'd never really seen reason to complain. She had a good life—a bit boring, perhaps, but good. And while she occasionally lamented the fact that she would never be the vision of beauty that her mother was, in truth, she hated the discomfort of the mask far more than she hated her face.

_I'm not _that_ ugly, am I?_

But the Erik of Leroux's book had absolutely abhorred his appearance—which, granted, was a good bit worse than her father's actual condition—but still, it made her wonder. Perhaps the reason her father had never expressed his self-loathing was because he knew it would affect her own self-esteem. And the more she thought about it, the more she realized how difficult it must be for him to even look at her.

_He can't stand the thought of looking in a mirror, but my own face is almost an exact replica of his…._

And then the rope made perfect sense.

She would have cried at such a revelation, but at that moment, something else caught her attention. There was the subtle creak of wood, a soft click of the door. Most people wouldn't have even noticed it, but it seemed that, among other things, she'd inherited her father's acute senses. She waited until she was sure he was outside to get up. Peeking out of her bedroom window, she could just make out a figure walking to the barn.

_What's he doing up this early? It can't be any later than four—four thirty at the very latest!_

She wasn't scheduled to work for Madame LeBlanc today—which usually meant she would have slept in. But since she couldn't fall asleep anyway….

_Mama won't be up for several hours. If I hurry, I could follow him at a distance and then get back here before she wakes up._

She knew that wherever he was going, he clearly didn't want any company. But that just fueled her insatiable curiosity that much more.

She tiptoed down the stairs as quietly as she could, careful not to make a sound. Unlike her, Christine was a relatively sound sleeper, but she didn't want to take any chances.

Making her way to the barn, she cautiously peered inside, making sure that Julius and Erik had already gone. When she was certain that the coast was clear, she slipped inside, releasing Toulouse from his stall and flinging a leg up over his back. She gave a gentle kick of her heels, and then they were running across the fields.

It was a dark night—not completely moonless but dark enough so that a silhouette could only be seen by those whose eyes had been trained to the darkness. Fortunately, although her eyes were brown like Christine's, they also had Erik's peculiar catlike ability to see in the dark. However, while most others might not have seen her coming, her father certainly would, so she decided to take a different route than usual.

There was only one dirt road to town from their house, but there were other ways of getting there in a more roundabout way. Veering off to the northwest, she headed out until she reached the train tracks that passed by the old Seville place. She wondered vaguely whether William was up yet but decided that she would have to wait to see his home another day. After reaching the tracks, she looped back toward Madame LeBlanc's house where she would meet up with the main road. Having expected her father to be headed for town, she was rather surprised when she saw a lone figure sitting atop a horse in the distance, the pale white gleam of a half-mask confirming his identity.

She gasped, hoping he hadn't seen her, and ducked down low against Toulouse's neck. She hadn't worn her mask, and if she was lucky he might not have seen her. There was a small cluster of trees in the area, and she headed for their shade, hoping that whatever little shadow she had cast would disappear among the silhouettes of their low-lying branches. She brought Toulouse to a halt, looking back over her shoulder to see if he had come after her, but to her relief, he seemed not to have noticed. His gaze was fixated on the small road that led from the Seville place to Madame LeBlanc's, connecting to the main road just ahead of her house. The cluster of trees in which she was hidden was nearly halfway between William's house and Madame LeBlanc's, giving her a good view of the entire area, which was open enough to allow her to just barely make out her father's figure on a hill beyond the widow's cottage.

For what seemed like hours, she stood in the shadows, waiting patiently for him to make a move. But Erik was as still as a statue, the gentle night wind blowing his cape in the breeze the only sign of movement. Mélodie was just about to give up and go home when the glow of a lantern's light and the sound of horses' hooves coming down the road caught her attention. Erik's head snapped up at attention. This was what he'd been waiting for.

xxxx

Erik heard the horses' hooves even before the light of the lantern spilled over the small hill in the distance. From the direction they were coming, he felt certain that this was his target. No one else lived in the direction of the Seville cottage for several miles, and no one else would have had reason to be heading toward Madame LeBlanc's this early in the morning. He saw William step out of the carriage, using his cane to guide him up to the front door, which Madame LeBlanc promptly opened, spilling out a soft glow of light from inside the house.

He was far enough away that he felt sure he wouldn't be seen until the carriage was with a few feet of his position. He nudged Julius forward, taking him down the hill so that he was standing in the middle of the road perpendicular to any traffic that would be coming. Although travel by horseback was possible off the main road, travel by carriage was not. Erik smirked. As long as Julius stayed put, there was no way around him, and the Travingstons' carriage would have to stop. Perfect.

When the carriage drew near, Erik hopped off the horse's back and slunk quietly to the side of the road, lying down in the tall grass so that he was barely visible but had a full view of the road. Though he had known Julius for but a short time, he'd quickly formed a bond with the horse, and although he was not as old or as experienced as César had been, the little gelding was every bit as obedient to Erik. Even as the carriage came closer, still rattling on at full speed, the little horse didn't budge, and Erik sent him silent thanks, making a mental note to reward his four-legged friend later for his efforts. At long last, the carriage slowed, and a man jumped out of the driver's seat to shoo the stubborn gelding out of the way.

Erik saw his chance to make a move, quietly slipping into the road and on top of the carriage. He watched the man like a hawk zeroing in on its prey. When at last, after several failed attempts to move the horse in the middle of the road, the man turned back to the carriage, Erik pounced.

He landed beside the man, who in fear of his life, waved his whip at the attacker. But Erik knew this game too well. In a flash, his hand was up, grabbing the end of the whip and twisting his arm around so that the black leather was taught against the man's throat. For a moment, his grip tightened, but when the man began to choke, he quickly released him from his hold. He hadn't come here to fight.

The man staggered forward, gasping for breath. He landed on his hands and knees in the grass. "Whoever you are," he raised a hand to his throat, "I'm already late for work, so if you're going to kill me, I'd appreciate it if you got on with it!"

"Believe me, monsieur," the voice sent shivers up his spine, "if I wanted to kill you, you would no longer be breathing." He paused. "Mr. Travingston, I presume?"

The man got to his feet, angrily brushing the dirt from his clothes. "You presume correctly. Now what is you wa—" The moment his eyes alighted on the mask, he froze. "You," he breathed. "You're the…the…"

"The Phantom of the Opera? The Opera Ghost? The Devil's Child? Yes, all of the above. I go by many names, monsieur."

Mr. Travingston took a step back. "H-how are you alive? They said you died in that fire…."

Erik sneered, enjoying the look of fear on the man's face. "Yes, well…it is rather difficult to kill a ghost."

He was back in his element now. The Phantom hadn't figuratively shown his face in ages, and although Erik had put that part of his past to rest long ago, he had to admit that it was rather fun getting to play the part of a ghost again. He began circling the man, as he had done to the gypsy in town.

"Tell me, Mr. Travingston, do you, by any chance, have a son?"

Travingston glared. "How do you know of William?"

"How I know of him is not important. What _is_ important is that I know how you've been treating him—and your wife."

The man's eyes widened.

"Oh, yes. I know all about what you've done. I've been beaten before, you know. Have you? It isn't fun."

His circles were getting smaller, and Travingston was beginning to panic.

"I'll…I'll send the authorities after you."

Erik laughed darkly. "My dear Mr. Travingston, haven't you heard that I have friends in high places? Monsieur le Vicomte himself is on my side now. I could have him send every genadarme in France after you if I wished."

He was bluffing a bit now, but it was still mostly true.

"Y-you're lying."

The former Phantom raised an eyebrow. "Am I?"

Travingston gulped. "What would have me do?"

Erik grabbed him by the front of his shirt, pulling him closer so that they were eye to eye. "If I find that even one hair on the head of that boy is misplaced, I'll make absolutely sure you know _exactly_ what it feels like to get a beating." He lowered his voice. "And there won't even be anyone around to hear you scream."

Erik hoped he wouldn't have to carry out that sentence, but if it was necessary, he would.

"P-please, monsieur! I-I have a family!"

"Then you might want to start acting like you care about them."

He shoved the man to the ground, and then, with a swish of his cape and a kick to his horse, he vanished into the night.

xxxx

Mélodie watched as her father rode Julius out into the middle of the path and sunk quietly into the grass by the side of the road.

_What on earth is he doing? _

She saw the man get out of the carriage and walk toward Julius, shaking his fists and yelling what she assumed to be all kinds of profanities at the stubborn animal, and she almost laughed. She knew Julius well enough by now to know that if he didn't want to move, he wasn't going _anywhere_. Eventually, the man gave up, but when he turned to go back to the carriage, a masked figure leapt down from above, black cape billowing like the dark wings of a demon in the night. She watched in horror as he wrapped the whip around the man's neck, covering her mouth to stifle a scream. This was not the man that she called father. _This_ was the Phantom of the Opera.

Jumping onto Toulouse's back, she kicked him into a full out run, unable to watch the scene unfold any longer. When at last she made it home, she ran from the barn back into the house, bolting the door behind her, and clamored up the stairs to bed, throwing the covers over her head and trembling until at last she cried herself to sleep.


	16. The Last Train Out of Town

**Author's Note: You guys may want to kill me after this chapter... I'm sorry. It had to be done for plot device purposes. :P I promise things WILL get better soon.**

**Chapter Fifteen: The Last Train Out of Town**

Morning came and went and faded into early afternoon and still Mélodie did not emerge from beneath the covers. She wanted to forget what she'd seen. She wanted to forget all she'd learned. Maybe if she closed her eyes for just a bit longer when she woke up, it would all be a dream.

For the second time now, she cursed her curiosity. Never before had she so well understood the old adage that ignorance is bliss. She found herself longing for that ignorance now, wishing that she had never learned any of the things she'd discovered over the past few weeks. Knowledge, it seemed, was sometimes much worse than the alternative.

She knew that the carriage must have belonged to the Travingstons, for she had seen William step out at Madame LeBlanc's. And that troubled her all the more. If it had belonged to a random stranger, the events of the night before might not have bothered her quite so much, but….

_Was that William's father in the carriage? Did he…_

She shuddered. No, she couldn't think like that. She hadn't stayed around long enough to actually see whether or not the man had died, but she could not allow that possibility to enter her mind. It would shatter whatever trust she had left in her father, and she didn't want that to happen.

_There must have been a reason! There must have!_

But try as she might, she could think of none.

When it was nearly one o'clock and Mélodie still had not come down from her room, Erik and Christine began to worry. Sleeping in was one thing, but Mélodie rarely stayed in bed beyond ten or eleven even on her worst days. When at long last the door to her room opened, she was relieved to see that it was her mother who'd been sent up to check on her. She didn't think she could face her father right now, and she wasn't sure she'd ever be able to see him the same way again. When Christine had asked her what was wrong, she considered saying something but decided that if her mother didn't already know what sort of man she'd married, it would be better not to tell her. But then, if the book was to be believed, Christine knew very well what she'd gotten herself into by marrying the Opera Ghost, and if that was the case, then perhaps her mother had been in on the plan too. Whatever the case, she decided it best not to say anything, complaining of an imaginary stomachache that was quickly becoming very real as she considered the events of the previous night. She refused to leave her room for the rest of the day, taking a bowl of broth in bed over whatever real food they were eating downstairs just to avoid sitting at the same table with _him_.

xxxx

Madame LeBlanc jumped a little at the sound of a knock on her door. She glanced at the clock. It was after ten, and she certainly wasn't expecting anyone this late at night. Then again, Erik was prone to show up at strange times, so she supposed she really shouldn't be surprised. But when she opened the door, she was greeted not by the familiar masked face but a pair of blind blue eyes.

"William! What on earth are you doing out so late? I thought you went home hours ago! Is everything alright?" Her forehead wrinkled in concern.

"Yes…well, not exactly."

The widow frowned, noticing a blue-black circle under one of his eyes. She touched it gently. "What happened to your eye, dear?"

"Oh, it's…it's nothing." He was quick to change the subject. "Listen, I can't stay long. My parents don't know that I'm out. I just wanted to thank you for all you've done for me and to ask if you'd leave a message for Mélodie." He took a deep breath. "We're leaving town first thing tomorrow morning, and I just wanted her to know that I'm sorry I won't be around long enough to say goodbye."

"Leaving? So soon? But when will you be back?"

"I'm afraid…we…won't."

"Why so sudden? Did something happen that I should know about? Some sort of emergency? You know I'll do anything I can to help."

William thought for a moment. Yes, something _had_ happened. When his father had started ranting and raving about some masked man who had attacked him on the road, he knew immediately what had happened. But while perhaps he should have been angry at Erik for revealing that he knew his secret, he knew within his heart that the man had only been trying to help. The former Phantom had stood up for him and yet shown his father mercy when he'd deserved none. For that, he respected Erik.

If he told the truth, he knew he ran the risk of the authorities discovering that the Opera Ghost wasn't quite as dead as they'd hoped. And so, he decided to let the events of the previous night remain under the cover of darkness.

"No, nothing happened. I guess Father just decided he didn't like living so far away from the city."

Madame LeBlanc was skeptical but said nothing. "Alright…Well, if you'd like a ride back, then—"

He stopped her. "Thank you, but I think a carriage might attract too much attention. As I said, my parents don't know that I'm out, and I'd prefer to keep it that way. Besides," he smiled, "I rather like walking."

"Are you sure?"

He shrugged. "It's only about a mile."

"But it's dark, and—"

William laughed. "It's dark to me all the time."

Madame LeBlanc huffed in mock irritation. "Alright. But be careful." She wrapped him in warm, motherly embrace. "I'm going to miss you."

He returned the hug, wishing that it didn't have to end. "I'm going to miss you, too."

xxxx

Christophe stood open-mouthed and unblinking, his parents' tale still fresh in his mind. He stumbled over to a chair, taking a seat to prevent his wobbly legs from landing him flat on the floor. All the color had drained from his face.

"Are…are you telling me that…that this is all true?"

Living in Paris, it was inevitable that Christophe had at least heard of _The Phantom of the Opera_, but he'd never actually seen the play for himself, and unlike Mélodie, he rarely read for pleasure, so the storyline had come as a bit of a shock to him—particularly when he'd discovered that the characters were not fictional at all. Of course, his parents had added several details that he felt certain the opera might not have included—such as what had happened a_fter_ the supposedly fatal fire and how a mutual friendship in Christine had ultimately brought the two of them together when Raoul was still mourning his loss and a rather timid Meg had come to apologize for misdirecting their 'rescue' mission to the Phantom's lair. But the very idea that such a fanciful tale of romance and deception could be true seemed ludicrous. And to think all this time that he'd been under the assumption that his family history was rather boring!

"It _is_ true." Meg stepped forward, her belly once again bulging as if she'd swallowed a watermelon. "Very much so."

"Which is why Paris will never be a safe place for Mélodie or her family," Raoul concluded.

"But…but you're the vicomte! Couldn't you…I don't know…annul his charges somehow?"

"Christophe, he's wanted for extortion, arson, kidnapping, and at _least_ two or three acts of murder—not including the people who died in the fire. The most I could do would be to absolve his part in the one case of attempted murder in which he failed to follow through—my own. If I tried to do anything more than that, I'd likely have to resort to bribery, which would compromise our standing with the law." He sighed. "Despite the fact that he and I have never quite seen eye to eye, I'm willing to put aside the past for the sake of both of our families. However, I highly doubt that everyone else in Paris would be as forgiving if they learned that the Opera Ghost was still alive."

Christophe was quiet for a moment. "Does Mélodie know?"

Raoul glanced briefly at Meg before answering. "We made an agreement with them a long time ago that none of us were to speak of it with our children for safety's sake and so that you all might not be weighted down by the shadows of our past. It was our burden to bear, not yours."

Christophe nodded solemnly. "I understand. It's a shame, though, really. She's always wanted to come to Paris, and I'm sure her parents must miss it here sometimes. I wish they could at least visit once." He frowned; then suddenly, he brightened. "Didn't you say that her father played the role of the Phantom at his opera's debut?"

"Yes, why?"

Christophe chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. "I think I know of a way that they could come here without being noticed."

xxxx

William slowly made his way back to the house, enjoying the humming of the crickets and the low whistle of a train in the distance. Before, they'd always lived in the city, and he'd been forced to stay holed up inside with no one but his mother and his music for company, along with the occasional private tutor who was generally incredibly boring and incredibly old. Here, things had been different. While there were no official teachers in this small town—everyone here was either homeschooled or simply never got an education at all—he'd learned more about love and life in this little village than he'd ever known before.

Madame LeBlanc had taught him how to knit—though he'd pricked his fingers a good many times before he'd figured out how to feel his way around the needles and doubtless ruined many of her potential projects—and how to make the best cookies in the entire world. He couldn't do much cooking on his own, but he had the recipe memorized, and he couldn't wait to tell his mother about it. Perhaps sometime when she was feeling a bit better they'd make the cookies together. And despite her advanced age, Madame LeBlanc, he realized, had become a true friend. Unlike the countless old tutors he'd had, she had treated him more like a son than an ignorant student, and he wished he could have thanked her more properly.

And then there was Mélodie. He smiled to himself. She certainly was an interesting person…but then, he assumed that anyone with the Phantom for a father and Christine for a mother would _have_ to be a bit different. But it was her differences that he admired. Like him, she was in some way handicapped, but she didn't allow that handicap to define her. She had taken him for the ride of his life on a horse that he'd thought for certain was going to run right out from under him and given him the chance to meet one of his favorite composers…who also happened to be one of his favorite characters, and surprisingly, a very nice man. He sighed. In his young life, he'd rarely had the chance to meet others his own age, and Mélodie—though a bit younger than him—had been a nice change of pace. She had been a good friend for the short time he'd known her, and perhaps…if they had stayed a few years longer, she might have become more. But he supposed that was how life worked; people's paths often crossed but rarely intertwined. One thing was for certain: He knew he would never forget her.

Feeling his way along the rutted path, his cane tapping out a rhythm in front of him, he suddenly stumbled over a stone that he'd failed to notice. He managed to steady himself, taking a few steps forward to regain his balance, but in the process he ran into something else in the path, tripping yet again. This time he was unable to stop the fall and collided with the ground, his hands picking up splinters and cuts from wooden slats and iron nails. The something he had tripped over, he realized now, was the train tracks. He stood quickly, knowing that the last train for the evening would be headed this way soon, and dusted off his shirt. But when he attempted to step forward, he found that his foot had somehow become wedged between two of the slats, and no matter which way he turned, it wouldn't come loose.

He froze when heard the eerie sound of the train whistle on the breeze. It was closer now. MUCH closer. He started to panic, struggling to get free.

"HELP ME!"

He could feel the tracks starting to rumble beneath his feet.

"HELLO? CAN ANYONE HEAR ME? SOMEBODY HELP!"

By the time the time the conductor saw him they were already too close to stop.

The last thing that he heard was the screech of steel on steel and the blaring of a warning signal from the conductor. It was a mercy that he couldn't see what happened next.


	17. Healing

**Chapter Sixteen: Healing**

The next morning Mélodie was up before sunrise, slipping past her father without so much as a "good morning" and heading straight for the barn where she immediately mounted Toulouse and urged him into a gallop.

Erik watched her leave out the kitchen window. He considered going after her on Julius but decided it was probably against his better judgment. If she didn't want to talk about it now, hunting her down would likely only make matters worse. He sighed. He still hadn't figured out exactly what it was that was troubling her in the first place, and after enduring the cold shoulder for several weeks, he was almost ready to give up. Whatever the reason for her discontent, it was taking its toll on him. Erik had learned long ago not to expect much from the world. From the very beginning he'd been an outcast, avoided by nearly everyone for his devil's face. But to be rejected by his own daughter—his own flesh and blood who shared his deformity—was almost more than he could bear.

xxxx

When Mélodie arrived at Madame LeBlanc's, she was surprised to find the widow in tears.

"Madame LeBlanc? Are you alright?"

She poked her head around the woman to see William's reaction to whatever had gotten the old woman so worked up. But his usual seat on the sofa was empty. She frowned worriedly.

_I hope his father is alright._

"Where's William?"

At this, the widow only seemed to cry harder. She pulled a floral patterned handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. "Come in dear. I'm afraid I have some bad news."

"Is…is it William? What happened? Is he hurt?"

"He dropped by last night to tell me that his family was leaving town on the morning train."

"Leaving? Why?"

Madame LeBlanc shook her head tearfully. "Something about his father's job, I think."

"Oh."

Mélodie had a sinking feeling that she knew why Mr. Travingston would have wanted to leave town. _But at least he's alive_, she thought to herself.

"He wanted me to tell you goodbye since he thought he'd already be gone by the time you arrived for work," she choked.

"But the train hasn't left yet!" She threw back the curtains on one of the windows. In the distance, a crowd had gathered around the tracks. "See! It must have gotten stuck. Maybe if I hurry I can catch him before—"

"Mélodie." Madame LeBlanc solemnly closed the curtains and took the girl gently by the shoulders. "Mélodie, dear, the reason the train hasn't left yet…" She blinked back a few tears. "The reason the train hasn't left yet is because there was boy…on the tracks."

Mélodie suddenly felt as if all the air had been squeezed from her lungs, the breath knocked out of her chest.

"What?" she asked hoarsely.

The old widow shook her head sadly. "I'm sorry, dear. He's gone."

xxxx

Mélodie tore out across the fields, pushing Toulouse harder than she'd ever pushed him before. She needed to get away from that house, away from the train, away from those horrible words that echoed in her mind. [1]

_It's not true!_ Her heart screamed in protest. _It's not true! It's not true! _

But no matter how fast they ran, she could not escape reality.

She could feel the horse's sides heaving beneath her legs, the sting of his mane whipping in the breeze against her skin. Her own breathing was erratic, painful. She hadn't cried yet, but that was only because her brain was still trying to rationalize what she'd heard and her heart was still frozen in denial.

_Not true. Not true. Not true._

But every second that passed seemed to melt a little more of the sugar-coated fantasy away. Every hoofbeat was a jarring reminder that this was not one of her fairytales. And no amount of wishes or kisses or hopeful longing could bring him back. William was gone.

Throwing herself off the horse and slamming the stall gate behind her, she ran from the barn as fast as she could, feet flying over the ground, heart pounding with every step. She didn't care if the gate bounced open. She didn't care if the stalls needed cleaning. She didn't care about anything right now. The tears were already beginning to blur her vision, and all she wanted was to lock herself up in her room and never come out.

Mélodie burst through the front door, racing for the stairs with no intention of stopping.

Christine looked concerned. "Mélodie! What on earth—"

She would have kept running, but when Erik reached out to grab her arm, she swerved angrily to face him, attempting to wrench her arm from his grasp. "IT'S _YOUR_ FAULT!" she screamed. "HE'S DEAD, AND IT'S YOUR FAULT! YOU MADE HIM LEAVE!"

Erik kept his grip firm but gentle. "Mélodie, what are you talking abou—"

"WILLIAM!" She continued to squirm. "He came back to say goodbye and the train and—"

She shook her head. She knew she wasn't making sense, but she couldn't put her thoughts together in a coherent manner at the moment.

"Mélodie, I had no idea they were leaving. I—"

"LIAR!" she hissed. "I saw what you did the other night! And now you're lying again just like you lied to Mama about the Angel of Music!"

His grip slackened.

"But I don't know why it would matter to you that he's gone," she continued. "Killing apparently never bothered you before. Why should it matter now? Are you _happy _that he's gone? Is that it? Are you so selfish that you can't share someone you care about with anyone?"

Erik sighed. "Mélodie…."

The tears were hot beneath the mask, and she suddenly ripped it off, shattering it against the ground. "I _hate_ this stupid mask and I _hate_ this town and I _HATE_ YOU!"

Jerking her arm free, she ran up the stairs and into her room, slamming the door closed behind her and collapsing on the bed in a heap as her body wracked with sobs.

xxxx

Erik sat at the piano, head bowed against his fist. His eyes were closed, as if he had been resting, but Christine knew otherwise. "He was just a boy, Christine. A good boy, at that." He sighed. "Sixteen. Just a few years older than Mélodie…. Of all the lives that I have taken, I have _never_ harmed a child."

Her hands on his shoulders did little to comfort him.

"You didn't mean for this to happen," she soothed. "It wasn't your fault that he came back. It wasn't your fault that the train didn't stop in time. Erik, you had no control over that."

He shook his head. "I should have listened to you. I never should have tried to take things into my own hands." He gave a half-hearted laugh. "You'd think I'd know by now that never works."

Christine rubbed her thumbs in calming circles against the fabric of his shirt. "She doesn't hate you," she assured him.

"She has every right to."

"She's just upset." She leaned forward, wrapping her arms around his chest and leaning her face against his hair. She kissed the top of his head. "I'll go talk to her."

She turned to go upstairs but felt a gentle hand wrap around her wrist.

"No," he whispered. "If she is to know about everything that happened…I want to be the one to tell her."

Christine gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. "Are you sure you're ready for this?"

There was the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. "I'll never be ready, Christine. But this is something I _must_ do."

xxxx

Mélodie sat on the edge of the bed with her arms over her chest and her back to the door. When she heard the bedroom door open, she didn't need to turn around to know who it was.

"Go away," she said coldly. "I don't want to talk to you."

Erik closed the door behind him, leaving it slightly ajar, and stepped closer to the bed. "Then don't talk. Just listen."

She felt a fresh batch of tears roll down her cheeks. "Why, so you can lie to me again?"

"I wasn't lying when I said that I didn't know William's family was leaving. I never intended for _anyone_ to die—not even his poor excuse of a father. I only meant to frighten Mr. Travingston—perhaps knock some sense into that thick skull of his—but not to kill him."

Mélodie still refused to look up. "What did he ever do to you?"

"To _me_, nothing. But to his son…." He shook his head. "You can't tell me you didn't notice those bruises."

"He said he fell down the stairs," she countered. But there was a note of uncertainty in her voice that she knew he hadn't missed.

"He lied."

Mélodie whirled around, glaring. "How do _you_ know?"

"I know because he told me what _really_ happened on the carriage ride back to Madame LeBlanc's."

Mélodie looked confused. Was this just another one of her father's lies or was he telling the truth? She huffed irritably. "Well…well, what sort of father would beat his own son anyway?"

"Mine did."

Her eyes widened in surprise, but she couldn't seem to find her voice. She searched his eyes for any hint of deceit but found none. It was always his eyes that gave him away. Even when he chose to mask his emotions—both literally and figuratively—his eyes never lied. And the pain she saw reflected in their depths seemed to leave little room for doubt that his words were not a mere fabrication of his mind but a true expression of his heart.

_Maybe he_ is _telling the truth._

Erik sighed. "He was a good boy, Mélodie. A smart boy. I've no doubt he would have gone far if given the chance."

But no one _had_ given him a chance. For a long time no one had ever believed that a boy with a devil's face could possess an angel's voice, and no one had ever believed that a blind boy could compose. Now they never would.

Mélodie stared at her hands in her lap. "You liked him."

"Yes, I did."

"More than me?" she asked quietly.

Instantly, he was at her side, putting a hand on her shoulder and kneeling so that he could look up into her eyes. "Mélodie, what on earth gave you an idea like that?"

She absolutely refused to meet his gaze. "Papa, in less than five hours, you spent more time laughing and talking with him than you have with me for years. You're always so busy with your music and sometimes because I can't sing or play I think that you forget I even exist."

Erik closed his eyes. "Oh, Mélodie. Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because you and Mama always seemed to enjoy it so much. And I liked listening but…."

He lifted her chin. "Mélodie, my music is important to me, and I love it. But it has _never_ meant more to me than you. I'm sorry if I ever led you to believe otherwise."

She hesitated. There was still one thing that didn't seem to make sense. "What about the rope?"

"What rope?"

"The one in the forest…tied with your knot…and a hangman's noose."

Erik sighed deeply, letting his hand slip from her shoulder. He hadn't expected this question to come up.

"Well?" she asked. "Were you trying to get rid of someone or get rid of your own dark thoughts?"

Now _he_ was the one who couldn't look her in the eye. He stood and turned to face the window, clasping his hands behind his back. When he finally spoke, it was barely a whisper.

"Before you were born, your mother was expecting another child, but…something…something went wrong, and she lost the baby."

It was almost physically painful to remember that day. Christine had been so upset, and he'd had no idea how to comfort her. The following months had been some of the hardest of their marriage.

"When we found out that she was with child again, I was happier than I'd been in a long time. And when you were born…when I learned that I was a father…for a few brief moments, I thought things couldn't get any better."

He paused. He hated himself for the next part. He hated it because he knew that he hadn't reacted much differently than his own parents had—though admittedly, for an entirely different reason. Still, he'd be hard-pressed to call himself anything but a hypocrite. He swallowed back the fear and self-loathing that had suddenly gripped his heart and forced himself to continue.

"But when I…when I realized that you had inherited my face, it nearly killed me, and I thought that it might have been better if…."

"If I'd never been born?"

He couldn't bring himself to acknowledge the truth in her statement.

"Well, I'm right, aren't I?" she asked matter-of-factly, as if they'd been debating politics rather than discussing a delicate family matter. "That's what you were going to say."

For all the times that he had broken down, Erik had never lost his composure in front of his daughter. But this was tearing him apart. He was glad that he was facing away so she couldn't see him lick the salty liquid from his trembling lips.

"Yes."

She was probably crying, too, but he couldn't look.

He somehow managed to find his voice. "Mélodie, I…I didn't know what to do. I'd never been a father before, and I was afraid…I was afraid that you'd have to endure everything that I'd gone through…and I couldn't bear to live every day knowing that I was the reason for your unhappiness. So I…."

He was blinking profusely, but it did little to hinder his emotion. His lips were drawn in a tight line to prevent the silent hiccup of his chest from escaping, and he clenched his fists, angry with himself for allowing such a loss of dignity.

Without a word, Mélodie walked over from the bed, taking his hand in hers and leaning against his side. Slowly, he turned toward her and gingerly wrapped an arm around her shoulders. For a moment, they didn't speak.

"Papa, tell me a story." She didn't look up or let go, her golden curls still pressed against his chest. "Tell me _your_ story," she clarified. "The real one."

"It's not a very pretty story," he warned.

"I still want to hear it."

"It started a long time ago…."

Mélodie pulled back. "No, Papa! You're doing it wrong." She looked up at him with a slight smile on her face. "All the best stories start out with 'once upon a time,' remember?"

He returned the gesture. "Very well, then."

When at last Christine peeked through the small crack in the door, Erik and Mélodie were sitting on the bed with Mélodie leaning against his shoulder and Erik running his fingers through her curls. She strained to hear what her husband was saying.

"Once upon a time, in a small town not too different from this one, there was a beautiful young woman by the name of Madeleine…." [2]

Christine smiled and closed the door.

xxxx

It was late that afternoon when they heard a knock at the door. Naturally, Christine was the one to answer it, Erik having gone upstairs for the mask and wig. She was a bit surprised when she realized that the woman on the doorstep was someone she'd never seen before.

"Hello. May I help you?"

The woman was fair-skinned with long black curls that reached to her waist and startlingly blue eyes the color of the autumn sky. She was very thin, almost sickly, with dark circles beneath her eyes as if she hadn't slept soundly for years. She wore a dark blue satin dress trimmed in black with black gloves and a black feathered hat with a thin veil. When she spoke, it was with a slightly English accent.

"Is Mélodie here?"

"Yes…." Christine responded hesitantly.

Erik stepped up behind her just as Mélodie, having heard her name, poked her head around the corner. "What do you want with her?"

Seeing the girl's naked face along with Erik's masked one, she paled. The woman's hand flew to her mouth, and she took a step back. "It _is_ you, then. When my husband came home, I thought he was drunk again and…."

Erik tensed. "Who are you?"

The woman shook her head. "Forgive me. Oh, that God would give me the eyes of my son! My name is Elizabeth Travingston. I am…" Her eyes fluttered closed briefly. "I _was_ William's mother."

There was an uncomfortable pause before the woman continued.

"I came here to deliver this."

She held out a small piece of paper to Mélodie, who quickly snatched it from her hand like a wild bird taking seed from an outstretched palm. She watched as the girl unfolded it, splotches of ink slowly morphing into music notes. The title read, "Mélodie's Song."

"It's not quite finished, I'm afraid, but I think he would have wanted you to have it."

Mélodie stared at the paper in awe. "He…he wrote this…for me?"

Elizabeth nodded. "I did the actual writing, of course, but the music is entirely his creation."

The woman glanced up, and for a moment, her eyes met with Erik's. He attempted to apologize. "Madame, I—"

But she cut him off. "I did not come here to condemn you for your actions. If anything, I should be thanking you for doing what William would have done if he'd been able."

"Is your husband still a problem?" Christine asked. "If you need a place to stay then…."

Elizabeth shook her head. "Thank you, but that won't be necessary. When people started asking questions about the accident, he vanished. I doubt I'll ever see him again and…to be honest, I hope I never do."

"Will you be staying here then?"

She gave a strained smile. "As much as I like this little town, after all that has happened here, I don't think I can stay."

Christine looked concerned. "Where will you go?"

She shrugged. "Somewhere far away where I can find a new life and start over."

Erik was still a bit nervous about having her recognize his true identity. "And you will not say anything about…."

"Doing so would tear your family apart and punish not only you but your wife and daughter as well. It would not be fair, and William would not have wanted it." Her eyes filled with tears. "And speaking as a mother who has lost her child, I know that being separated from the ones you love is a sentence that I would not wish on anyone." She prepared to leave. "Well, I suppose I should be going. Thank you all for being a friend to my son…and to me."

As Christine and Erik watched her carriage leave, Mélodie was still staring at the paper in her hand, trying to make sense of the notes. For the most part, she understood what they meant, but unlike her parents, she didn't know them well enough to hear them in her head. She touched her father's sleeve.

"Papa, will you help me with this?"

Erik accepted the paper and seated himself at the piano, but when he touched his fingers to the keys, she put out a hand to stop him before he could play the notes.

"No, no! That's not what I meant…." She bit her lip and looked up sheepishly at her father's clearly confused expression. "What I mean to say is…will…will you teach me to play?" [3]

And so they sat side by side with Erik's hands guiding hers until at last she got it right and the sound of music wafted through the air soft and sweet and beautiful. The sunset that evening was a kaleidoscope of colors, and as the sun sank slowly from the sky, Erik couldn't help but wonder whether she had her own Angel of Music now who was seeing the colors of the sunset for the very first time.

[1] Some dialogue from the following scene(s) came from the music video for Rascal Flatts' "What Hurts the Most." If you haven't watched it, it's a heartbreaker.

[2] Just to clear a few things up, if you remember from "Becoming Erik" my version of Erik's past is actually quite different from the Kay version. I'm simply using the name Madeleine for Erik's mother because it's a name that everyone recognizes.

[3] I imagine "Mélodie's Song" sounding like "Rose's Theme" from _Titanic._ (And, yes, I'm aware that in real life it would have taken her MUCH longer to learn to play, but for the sake of the story I'm shortening things…a lot. Besides, she _is_ the daughter of a musical genius.)


	18. The Paris Opera House

**Chapter Seventeen: The Paris Opera House**

Death is always tragic, but life has its own little way of healing the pain of loss. One life ends but another begins, and time keeps ticking as it always has. The world turns, the seasons change, and tears shed in summer return as soft winter snow that tickles the cheeks and melts on the tongue. And then one day, you wake up and realize that you're smiling again. So it was in the months following the tragedy of William's death and so it was that Mélodie found herself engaged in a snowball fight with Christophe one cold December afternoon.

"Is that all you've got?" he taunted. "Come on, now! You can do better than that!"

Another snowball whooshed by, barely missing his head. They'd been keeping track of who was "winning" by tallying the number of times they each managed to hit their opponent. So far, Christophe was winning five to zero.

THWACK! Mélodie felt the snowball slam into her side. Growling under her breath, she retaliated with two snowballs of her own, both of which missed. She huffed a sigh of frustration.

"Ha! Missed me again!" He prepared another snowball but stopped short of throwing it when he realized that his target wasn't moving. "Why aren't you running?"

She shrugged. "You're going to hit me anyway."

"Oh, come on, Mélodie! It's no fun if you don't even _try_!"

"But I can't hit you. It's no fun if you lose all the time, either." She crossed her arms.

"Well, you can hit me now." He offered her the snowball then stood with his arms open wide. "Well, go on. Throw it."

She gave it a half-hearted toss and hit him squarely in the chest.

"See, now you've proven you can hit me."

She rolled her eyes. "When you're standing less than two feet in front of me and not moving. You know I have horrible aim."

Christophe rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Hmm…Maybe it's not your aim that's off…." His eyes darted to the old maple tree on the hill, and he suddenly grabbed her wrist. "Come here for a moment. I want to see something." He led her over to the tree and pointed at it. "Pretend the tree is me. Try to hit it."

Mélodie frowned as she started packing a small wad of snow. "Alright…but why are we doing this?"

"I just want to see something. Go on, throw it." He watched as she pulled her arm back and hurled the snowball in the direction of the maple. It was less than ten feet away, but the moment the snowball left her hand, he knew it was going to go wide. "Ah! _There's_ your problem! You're throwing it wrong."

She put her hands on her hips. "What do you mean 'wrong'? I wasn't aware that there were rules about how to throw a snowball."

He laughed. "Well, there aren't…but there are certain postures and grips that improve your aim. Here." He packed another snowball and wrapped his fingers around it so that his middle and index finger were on top and his thumb was beneath it. "Try gripping it like this—and don't keep moving your legs when you throw. You need to keep both feet on the ground."

She looked at him curiously as he handed her the snowball. "How do you know all this?"

He shrugged. "Father regularly talks with some of the visiting English noblemen, so I've made a few friends from across the channel. They taught me how to play cricket."

She raised an eyebrow. "Cricket?"

"It's a game where someone throws a ball and someone else tries to hit it with a bat. When I first started playing, no one wanted me to throw the ball because my aim was so terrible," he laughed. "But they gave me a few pointers, and they seem to work for snowballs as well as cricket balls. Now you try."

This time the ball was closer, but it still missed the trunk by a few inches.

"Nice!" he said. "But you're still not holding it right."

He waited until she'd packed another one and took her hand in his, guiding her fingers into the correct position. Despite the numbness of his own fingers, the intimacy of the situation didn't fail to escape his attention, and he hastily withdrew, hoping that his cheeks were red enough from the cold that she wouldn't notice he'd blushed.

"Er…That's better. Now try again."

She threw the ball, this time with better luck. "Hey! I hit it that time!"

Christophe smiled triumphantly. "See, I told you it would work."

But his glory was short-lived.

THWACK! This time, _he_ was the one getting hit.

"Hey! That's no way to thank me!"

Mélodie stuck out her tongue and grinned devilishly. "Who said I was thanking you?"

She tossed a snowball straight up in the air, hitting one of the branches and shaking off a whole pile of snow and tiny icicles that promptly landed on Christophe's head.

He pretended to glare. "So you want to fight dirty, do you? Two can play that game."

They chased each other around the yard, screaming and laughing and throwing snowballs left and right until at last they tumbled right into the pond, breaking through the thin layer of ice at the top and thoroughly soaking themselves in the frigid water. For a moment, they simply looked at one another, each taking in the other's disheveled appearance and wondering if they'd been offended. Then they both burst out laughing.

"You look like a wet rat!" Mélodie snorted.

Christophe smirked. "Yes, well, at least my hair doesn't look like a rat made a nest _in _it."

"Oh, really?" She splashed him playfully. "Are you sure about that? Why don't you look at your reflection?"

He stood in the knee-deep water and looked down at the face staring back up at him. He chuckled. "Alright…it sort of does…." He caught Mélodie frowning down at her own reflection and reached for her hand. "Come on, Mélodie. Let's go inside. We'll freeze to death if we stay out here in these wet clothes for much longer."

She reluctantly accepted his hand and stepped out of the water, shivering. Christophe took off his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders. It was wet, too, of course, but at least it was a bit thicker than the one she was wearing. She looked up, surprised.

"You won't want to be sick _this_ Christmas," he explained. "It's going to be one to remember."

xxxx

If Mélodie wondered what Christophe had been hinting at, she didn't have to wonder for long. Soon after they'd dried out by the fire (and gotten a rather harsh reprimand from their mothers), the secret was out.

"We're going to _Paris?_" Mélodie squealed with delight. "To the opera house?"

Christine smiled. "We thought you might like the surprise."

Mélodie threw her arms around her mother. "Oh, I do! I do!" She frowned suddenly. "But how…?" Now that she knew more about her family history, she was fully aware of why her father had always labeled Paris as 'dangerous.' "Won't they notice us?"

"Every year they have a special performance that runs the entire week of Christmas," Christophe explained. "This year it happens to be a certain _Phantom of the Opera_, and guess who gets to be the guest of honor?"

He grinned, feeling rather proud of himself for having finally figured out a way to get the Gérard family safely in and out of Paris.

Mélodie glanced at her father, who was also smiling.

"But why would they…"

"He may be the Phantom," Christophe interrupted, "but since he also happens to be the composer and the very first to portray the character on stage, we can easily explain why he's in 'costume.' Men and women of the arts are often known to be eccentrics, so no one will question it—especially if he arrives with the vicomte."

"But what about me?" she asked. "How am I going to explain my mask?"

He shrugged. "Say you're wearing it in honor of your father's first and most well-known opera. I doubt anyone would object to you admiring your own father's work."

Mélodie seemed satisfied, but suddenly, another thought struck her. She turned to back to Christine. "What about you, Mama?"

Christine sighed. "I'm afraid I won't be going to the opera with you. As much as I'd love to go back, it would be very risky for me to be seen with your father in public. The people of Paris would recognize me just as easily as they'd recognize him, and while he might be able to pass as an ordinary composer on his own, if we were seen together as a couple, I'm afraid problems might arise."

Mélodie frowned. "So what are you going to do all day while we're at the opera?"

"Well," Christine glanced over at her best friend, "Meg and I are going shopping."

Raoul was taken aback. "Wait? What? When was this decided?"

"Just a little while ago when you and Erik were out at the barn."

Erik and Raoul looked at each other. They didn't like where this was going.

"So…so you're just leaving us alone together…with the children?"

Christine crossed her arms haughtily. "Well, you're two grown men. I don't see why you can't handle it."

"What about Henri and Marie?" Raoul was grasping at straws. Surely their wives didn't expect them to bring the baby to the opera house as well!

"Mother said she'd watch them," Meg answered, to which Madame Giry nodded in assent.

Erik glared at the women. "You've had this all planned out, haven't you?"

They didn't answer, but their devious smiles were sufficient enough to tell him all that he need to know. He rolled his eyes.

"Ugh. I am _never_ leaving the three of you alone together again." He turned to Raoul. "Well, de Chagny, it looks like it's going to be a very _long_ day at the opera."

Raoul huffed. "Well, at least we can agree on that much."

"When are we leaving?" Mélodie asked excitedly.

Erik answered. "First thing tomorrow morning."

xxxx

Mélodie gasped as the Palais Garnier came into view. "Oh, it's magnificent! Papa, did you really live here?"

"Indeed." Erik stared out the carriage window at the place he'd once called home, overcome with a sudden sense of nostalgia. He'd forgotten just how much he missed this place. He turned back to Mélodie. "However, I think for the time being, it would be best if we didn't mention that."

"Oh, right. Sorry."

"It's even more impressive on the inside," Christophe commented. "Wait until you see the theater itself! It can hold almost two thousand people!"

"Well, we're here," Raoul announced as they stopped in front of the building and stepped out of the carriage. He looked down at the children. "Christophe, Mélodie—I think you both know that we expect you to be on your best behavior. That means no rude noises or comments, no fighting."

"And absolutely _no_ unauthorized exploring." Erik looked pointedly at his daughter. "There _are_ still death traps down there," he warned.

Mélodie rolled her eyes. "Alright," she huffed.

As they made their way through the main door, the vicomte having introduced his companion as the famous composer, Erik was surprised at how easily he walked among the people of Paris without so much as a rude stare. Oh, he certainly turned a few heads—but it was mostly for autographs and handshakes and congratulations. He'd never felt like such a celebrity in all his life!

"I'll say this much, de Chagny," he quipped, "it's much easier when we're both on the same side." His lips quirked up in a mischievous smile. "Not quite as much fun, though."

Raoul was not amused. "Yes, well, I'd prefer _not_ to have a rope around my neck, thank you very much."

Erik just laughed.

xxxx

Christine spun around in front of the mirror, admiring the red dress she'd tried on.

Meg clasped her hands in delight. "Oh, Christine, you look lovely!"

Christine giggled. "Thank you. Oh, it's so wonderful to be back in Paris, Meg! It's just like we were children again!" She glanced back in the mirror, suddenly frowning.

"Don't you like it?"

She sighed. "It's a beautiful dress, Meg, but when would I wear it? There aren't exactly any balls for me to attend back home."

"Why not wear it to the Opera tonight?" a familiar voice boomed.

Christine whirled around. "Monsieur Leroux! How good to see you!" She embraced him warmly. "What are you doing here?"

As happy as she was to see him, she had to admit she was a bit surprised at running into him in a women's dress shop!

He gave a hearty laugh, and wrapped his free arm around Meg. "Oh, a little birdie told me I might find the two of you here," he winked. "He also mentioned that the theater staff would be most honored if the _real _Christine Daaé attended the production tonight."

She sighed again. "I can't. He knows that."

Leroux frowned. "Wouldn't you bothlike to spend this time with your families?"

The girls glanced at one another before Christine replied. "Of course, but how will we keep from arousing suspicion?"

Leroux gave a wave of his hand. "Leave that to me."

xxxx

They had been wandering the opera house for nearly three hours now, and Erik was becoming irritable. They'd toured nearly every inch of the place—_well, not_ every _inch_, he thought to himself—and he was getting rather bored. He knew this place so well that he probably could have given a better tour than the tour guide in his sleep. Once or twice he caught an error in the man's speech about the building, and he had to bite his tongue to refrain from correcting him. But Mélodie seemed to be thoroughly enjoying herself, so for her sake, he contented himself with counting the floor tiles while the guide droned on about something he'd probably heard ten million times before.

At long last, they made their way into the main theater where Erik was forced to stand beside the vicomte and shake the hands of all the noblemen, making small talk about the weather and politics and whatever else happened to be on their minds. And he absolutely hated it. Erik had never been a "people-person," of course, and while being treated with the utmost respect was nice, having so many people crowd around him made him _extremely _uncomfortable.

Thankfully, the end of the line was nearing. He smiled when he spotted Christine on Leroux's arm, looking absolutely stunning in her new evening gown.

Leroux slapped him on the shoulder, his voice even more obnoxiously loud than usual so that anyone within a hundred feet of them would hear the display. "Erik, lad! How wonderful to see you! You'll never guess who I ran into today in town!" He encouraged Christine to step forward. "I believe you remember Christine Daaé. She worked with you on your first production here at the Palais Garnier."

"Ah, yes. A pleasure to meet you again, Miss Daaé."

He allowed his lips to linger on the back of her hand for just a bit longer than what would be considered publicly acceptable, giving her a slightly devilish grin.

Once she realized what was going on, she quickly returned the smile and fell into her role. She might not have been on the stage in awhile, but she hadn't forgotten how to be an actress. She gave a polite curtsey.

"And you, monsieur." She nodded to Raoul. "Monseiur le Vicomte."

Raoul looked confused for a moment, glancing back at Erik before turning back to Christine. It was obvious he'd not been let in on the plan.

"Nice to see you again, Christine."

He was going to kiss the back of her hand, but a sudden death glare from Erik made him think better of it, and he settled for a simple handshake, hoping that anyone who was looking would simply mistake the awkwardness of the situation for the discomfort of a reunion of former lovers.

He attempted to play it up. "I believe you are acquainted with my wife, Meg. Unfortunately, she—"

"Is already here," Leroux finished for him.

"What?" He turned to see Meg sitting in Box Five with Christophe and Mélodie. She waved. "Oh! So she is!"

Erik made his move. "Would you care to join us for the evening, Miss Daaé?"

"Of course."

"Splendid." He offered her his arm. "I believe we have a lot of catching up to do."

As they made their way down the hall and away from the crowd, Christine smirked. "Box Five, Erik?"

"Naturally." He smiled.

xxxx

As the curtain rose and the overture began to play, Erik was overwhelmed by a sense of déjà vu. Nearly forty years ago, he'd stumbled into the opera house cellars, a scrawny thirteen year-old with nothing but a filthy pair of pants, a stuffed toy monkey, and a burlap sack to cover his face. For years he'd lived in solitude, the occasional company of Antoinette his only real contact with the outside world and the music from above his only comfort. In this opera house, he'd found a love for music and later found the love of his life. In this opera house, he'd been a Phantom and an Angel, and in this opera house, he'd taken the first step to becoming the man he was today. It was as much a part of him as he was of it, and with the music coursing through his veins and the night embracing his return, he was nearly moved to tears before the show had even gotten started good. He wasn't sure if he would make it through the whole thing.

It was surreal, really—like a dream. Oh, he'd been _in_ the show before, of course, but this was his first time viewing the story of his life as a member of the audience. It was as if he was having a near-death experience, looking back on all the things he'd done from an objective, third-party point of view, and he saw every flaw and every bad decision that he'd ever made. There were times when he wanted to scream at himself for being a fool, times when he wanted to laugh at the irony of the situation, and times when he thought he was going to have to get up and leave the room.

But then he'd feel Christine's hand squeeze his a little harder, and he would remember that he was here with his family. His _family_. These were people who'd seen his face and knew his past and somehow still managed to care about him anyway—his loving wife, his wonderful daughter, and their closest friends. Even the foppish young vicomte he'd once sworn off as a mortal enemy had become at the very least an ally, if not a true friend. For old times' sake, they still liked to give each other a hard time, but in reality, there were very few hard feelings left between them. Looking over at the people who surrounded him, he realized that his life had come full circle and that, despite the mistakes and the heartache and the losses he'd suffered, it was everything he'd ever dreamed. He glanced down at Mélodie, who was leaning against his shoulder—one hand in her lap, the other interlaced with Christophe's—and knew that it was only a matter of time before he'd have to let her write her own life story. And for a moment, he held her just a little bit closer.


	19. Surprises

**Chapter Eighteen: Surprises**

When it came time for the final lair scene, Erik seemed to grow anxious. He started to stand but stopped when he felt Christine's grip on his hand tighten.

"It's only a few more minutes," she whispered.

Erik felt a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips, touched by her concern. "It's not that. It's just…well…." He stood, offering her his hand. "Come with me."

Christine glanced briefly at Meg, who shrugged, before accepting the invitation. Erik looked down at Mélodie, who had said nothing yet but was staring up at him questioningly.

"We'll be back in a moment," he assured her.

As they slipped out into the main hall, Christine became curious. "Where are we going?" she asked.

Erik grinned. "You'll see."

"Can't you tell me?"

"And ruin the surprise?"

Christine pouted, but her mood quickly changed when she recognized the door that led backstage. She stopped walking, pulling Erik up short. "Erik, we can't go back there! They're in the middle of a performance!"

"Oh, I assure you, Christine, we most certainly _can_. In fact, I believe they're expecting us." He opened the door, amused by her thoroughly confused expression. "After you, _mon ange_."

Christine looked unsure but did as she was told, surprised when all the actors and actresses seemed perfectly at ease with their presence. She smiled politely at a few who nodded in her direction. When she thought they weren't looking, she turned back to her husband.

"Erik," she whispered, "what is going on?"

Just then she noticed two particular actors were headed in their direction. One was a young girl with dark curls in a white wedding gown. The other was a man who appeared to be in his thirties wearing a prosthetic that somewhat resembled her husband's deformity. She heard the applause from the other side of the curtain and realized that they must have just completed the final lair scene.

The girl was the first to speak. "Hello. My name is Émilie. I heard the two of you were here tonight, and I just wanted to say what an honor it is to meet you both." She turned to Christine. "It's not every day that one has the opportunity to play such a pivotal role with the actual character in the audience. I do hope I didn't disappoint you."

Christine laughed. "You were wonderful."

The man shook Erik's hand. "Your music is outstanding, sir. I hope my performance did your work justice." He paused, noticing the scar that extended beyond the edge of the mask. He pointed to the same position on his own face. "Nice touch."

Erik glanced at Christine, smiling at their inside joke. "Yes, I think it adds a little something, don't you?"

From the main stage, Christine heard a voice that she assumed belonged to one of the current theater managers. The audience had grown quiet.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, we have a special treat for you. The composer and original Phantom, Monsieur Erik Gérard, and the _real_ Christine Daaé have agreed to sing the title song for you tonight."

Christine glanced nervously up at Erik, who gave the young actors a polite nod of dismissal and began leading her over to the stage. In all the time she'd been away she'd often dreamed of her days on stage, but now that they were finally here, she wasn't so sure anymore. She hadn't sung this song in ages, and while singing in the church choir kept her on her toes, it hardly required her to hit such high notes.

"Erik, I can't do this. I'm out of practice."

"You didn't practice it the first time you sang," he reminded her.

"But Erik, I—"

The curtain started to rise. "Ladies and gentlemen, Christine Daaé and Erik Gérard."

The audience went wild. In Box Five, Mélodie gasped with delight while Raoul, Christophe, and Meg clapped harder than anyone else in the theater.

Erik leaned in, his lips barely a whisper away from her ear. She could feel his breath on her skin, sending shivers down her spine.

"_Sing_."

When he pulled back, her eyes were bright with a new confidence, and the moment the music began she knew exactly what to do.

_In sleep he sang to me,_

_In dreams he came_

_That voice which calls to me_

_And speaks my name._

_And do I dream again,_

_For now I find_

_The Phantom of the Opera is there_

_Inside my mind._

Erik moved with the poise and grace of an accomplished actor, but there was little acting required for this particular song. When his voice filled the room, there was little doubt why he'd chosen himself for the title role in the opera's debut.

_Sing once again with me  
Our strange duet.  
My power over you grows stronger yet,  
And though you turn from me to glance behind  
The Phantom of the Opera is there  
Inside your mind._

Christine was practically beaming. The words came back to her as if it had been yesterday that

they had first been sung. The crowd was obviously enjoying their display, and she was drinking it all in, feeling younger and more alive than she had in years. She brushed his good cheek with her fingers in a seductive manner that earned a smile from Erik and more clapping from the audience, tracing his jawline as she sang.

_Those who have seen your face  
Draw back in fear.  
I am the mask you wear._

Erik joined her in song.

_It's me they hear._

They circled one another, looking nowhere but the other's eyes. No choreography could have

been more convincing than their genuine display of love.

_Your (My) spirit and my (your) voice in one combined  
The Phantom of the Opera is there  
Inside my (your) mind._

The first time Christine had sung this, she'd been overwhelmed with emotions—curiosity, fear,

astonishment, and disbelief. But tonight Erik saw only love in her eyes.

_He's there, the Phantom of the Opera._

Erik reached his arms toward her as her voice lifted higher and higher.

_Sing, my Angel of Music._

_ Sing, my Angel._

She was hitting the notes perfectly. Not once did her voice falter, and she sounded just as lovely as she had nearly eighteen years ago.

_Sing._

_ Sing, my Angel._

_ Sing for me!_

She hit the last note with shattering clarity, ending the climax with a perfect E6. And the audience gave them a standing ovation.

Erik and Christine turned to face the audience and, hand in hand, took a bow. Erik was grinning wider than she thought she'd ever seen him smile, obviously proud of her performance, and Christine was simply speechless with gratitude. She had missed the stage terribly in their years in the country, and tonight he had given her one last chance to prove to the world that she was still the best. Her eyes filled up with tears.

"Oh, Erik," she whispered so that only he could hear. "This is the best gift you could have possibly given me."

xxxx

Mélodie ran into her mother's arms. "That was _amazing_!" she exclaimed. "I didn't know you could sing like that!" She turned to embrace her father. "You were amazing, too, Papa! Did you see the way the audience clapped for you?"

Raoul, Meg, and Christophe were close behind.

"Well, it would seem that the years haven't dulled your voices any," the vicomte commented.

Erik pretended to be offended. "Had you any doubt that they would? You should know by now, de Chagny, that the Angel of Music is very strict."

Raoul rolled his eyes. "Of course. How could I forget?"

Christophe tugged on his father's sleeve. "Father, may I take Mélodie up on the roof? I want to show her the view of the city from up there since they won't have any time to tour tomorrow."

Raoul glanced at Erik and Christine, who shared a knowing look. "Well, I have to meet with the managers in a few moments anyway. I'll be sure to ask for their permission, but in the meantime if anyone stops you, just tell them to see me."

"Thank you, Father!" Christophe grabbed Mélodie's hand. "Come on, Mélodie! Let's go!"

"Don't leave the roof until I come for you," he called after them. "And don't get too close to the edge!" He sighed and shook his head as he watched them leave. "I don't think they even heard a word I said."

"It wouldn't surprise me." Erik crossed his arms. "Not many people listen to you, anyway, de Chagny."

Raoul shook his finger in protest. "Now, see here—"

A tap on the shoulder got his attention. "Raoul, the managers are waiting," Meg reminded him.

The vicomte let out a frustrated sigh, his pride suddenly deflated when he realized that his wife was right and that now probably wasn't the best time or place to be seen bickering with a certain Opera Ghost. They'd have to finish their argument later. But for now, that meant that Erik had the last word, and he wasn't particularly happy about that. He glared at the former Phantom as he turned to leave, painfully aware of the victorious smirk behind the mask.

Erik chuckled to himself as the vicomte left with his wife, tail tucked between his legs like a little puppy whose bark didn't quite match up to his bite.

Christine shook her head, scolding him as if he were a child. "You shouldn't tease him so, Erik."

"It's all in good fun," he assured her. "Perfectly harmless."

"Until one of you gets angry," she protested.

"Let's not argue tonight, Christine. It's nearly Christmas. Besides, I have one more surprise for you."

"Oh?"

He led her down the hall into the private sector of the Opera House generally reserved for the resident actors and ballet girls until they came to the little chapel where he'd first heard her voice lifted in prayer. He lit a candle, then pulled out what appeared to be a loose brick, causing part of the back wall to open up into the vaults. Christine gasped. Were they really going back? Surely Erik's underground home would be in ruins after all this time.

"Antoinette has been keeping things up for me," he explained. "However, I believe the bed springs may be a bit rusty." He smiled suggestively. "Would you care to help me investigate?"

Christine returned the smile and, taking his hand, stepped into the passage. The door closed behind them, sealing them off from the rest of the world and engulfing them in the darkness. For a few moments tonight they would be in a world of their own.

xxxx

Mélodie gasped as they reached the top of the stairs. The roof was covered in a light layer of snow, the powdery flakes swirling like magic on the breeze, each minute facet of ice glittering in the moonlight an individual diamond. In the city below, a thousand tiny streetlamps winked on and off, their yellowish glow giving the impression that a colony of fireflies had taken up residence in the streets.

"It's beautiful," she breathed.

She raced to one of the angel statues that resembled the one she'd seen on stage, wondering if this was the very place her father had hidden that long ago night on this very roof. She climbed up on the statue to get a better view, holding onto one of the angel's arms for support.

"Wow! You can see all of Paris from up here! Oh, look Christophe!" She pointed out over the city to a building in the distance. "There's your house right there!"

"Mélodie, would you please come down from up there! You're going to fall!"

Mélodie reluctantly hopped down, frowning. "You know, you're starting to sound like my father," she said playfully. She walked over to the edge, leaning on the rail and staring wistfully out into the night. "It's magnificent, isn't it?"

"Mmm-hmm," Christophe grunted in agreement. But he wasn't looking at the city.

He came up beside her, folding his arms over top of the balustrade. For a moment, neither one spoke.

"I wish we didn't have to leave so soon," Mélodie sighed.

Christophe took a deep breath. "Mélodie, I know that…that we don't usually get one another gifts…and, well, this trip sort of _was_ a gift…but…I have something I want to give you—something I've wanted to give you for a long time now."

She looked at him questioningly. "What is it?"

He bit his lip. "Close your eyes."

As her eyes fluttered shut, he leaned in and gently placed his lips against her own. It was a bit difficult with the mask on, his upper lip bumping against the cool porcelain that covered the right half of her face, but he dared not ask her to remove it in such a public place for fear of her reaction. It was a quick, light kiss—the first kiss either one of them had experienced—like the brush of a butterfly's wings, but it was enough to get the message across.

Mélodie jerked back in surprise, eyes open wide in shock. Though, admittedly, it had not altogether been an unpleasant experience. She raised a hand to her lips, still tingling with the feel of the kiss. She looked as though she wanted to say something, but—

"Christophe? Mélodie?" Raoul's voice carried over the roof. "It's time to go!"

Christophe gave a sheepish grin. "Merry Christmas, Mélodie."


	20. Love

**Chapter Nineteen: Love**

Love is a curious thing. Sometimes it seemingly comes out of nowhere, crashing down over your head like a tidal wave, and sometimes it just seeps in through the cracks, a constant drip that gradually wears away at the walls around your heart until one day they crumble. It was this sort of gradual love—the kind of love where you don't really even know you're falling until you're in over your head—that best described the relationship between Christophe and Mélodie. And it was this sort of love that led an eighteen year-old Christophe to knock on the Gérard family's door one early spring morning.

Erik answered the door. Having gotten used to the boy's increasingly frequent visits, he wasn't particularly surprised to see the young de Chagny on his doorstep. "You're a bit early today," he commented. "Mélodie won't be back for at least another hour."

Over the years, Mélodie had continued to work for the paper, eventually becoming the full-time editor and regularly submitting her latest stories, which the townspeople seemed to thoroughly enjoy. Because the town was so small, the paper was only printed once a week, which generally meant she had a few days off or several short days. She typically opted for the second choice, preferring to work in the morning and have the afternoon off in case Christophe happened to drop by unannounced on the noon train. But today he'd arrived on the eight o'clock, knowing full well that Mélodie would still be at work and Christine would likely be asleep.

"I know." He fumbled with a button on his jacket sleeve. "I didn't actually come here to talk to her today. I came here to talk to you."

"I see."

Erik had a feeling he knew where this conversation was going, but he decided to let the boy have his say without interruption. If he couldn't find the courage to ask the question, Erik would not be helping him find his words. This was part of the test that any young suitor would have to pass, and Christophe was no exception—son of the vicomte or not! He allowed the boy to come inside, closing the door behind him.

Christophe took a calming breath. "As you're already aware, I've known Mélodie practically all of my life. Though we didn't initially see eye to eye, I have been interested in her for quite some time now, and if I am not mistaken, she returns the feelings." He waited for Erik to nod before he continued. "Now that we have been courting for almost a year, I'd like to take the next step…with your permission, of course."

He waited nervously for Erik's reaction. Having grown up with the former Opera Ghost as a family friend, Christophe had never seen reason to find the man before him intimidating. But the agonizing moment of silence that followed made him want to squirm under Erik's steely gaze. Finally, he spoke.

"You've discussed this with your parents, I trust?"

"Yes."

"And they approve?"

"With some reservations, yes."

Erik quirked an eyebrow. "Reservations?"

Christophe sighed. "Father isn't particularly happy about me giving up the title, but he's long known that I've wanted to, and he understands why it would be necessary if we were to marry."

"Do you have the means to support a family without the inherited wealth of a title?"

"I've been working as an apprentice at the Auteuil stables for awhile now. Racing itself is a bit of a gamble, and although I enjoy it, it's not something I'm sure I'd want to stake my future on. However, racing _and _breeding high-quality racehorses should provide a relatively stable income. I've discussed the idea with Father, and he's agreed to help me get started if I choose to do so."

"And where would you live? You understand that Paris is out of the question."

Christophe bit his lip. "Yes, sir. Father suggested England. He has a few friends there, but the de Chagny name isn't as well-known across the channel as it is here. If worst comes to worst, we could use a different surname."

Erik considered his words carefully. So far, he was satisfied with all the answers he'd heard. But there was still one very important issue they needed to discuss. Erik braced himself for the response, turning away.

"You realize that…should you have children, there _is_ a possibility that…." He couldn't bring himself to finish.

"I know." Christophe was surprisingly confident in his answer. "I've considered that for a long time, and I've come to the conclusion that it is a challenge I'm willing to face."

Erik turned to face him. "Give me one good reason why I should allow you to marry my daughter."

"Because I love her."

"And yet you haven't always," he accused. "Are you absolutely certain that this is what you want? That you won't at some point revert to your earlier feelings of _disgust_ and disdain?" He hadn't meant for the bitterness to creep into his voice, but he couldn't help it. "Because I love her, too," he said in a softer tone, "and I will not allow you to break her heart."

"Love can change a man," Christophe replied. "You of all people should know that is true."

Erik almost smiled. "Touché."

"So…the answer is yes?" Christophe asked hopefully.

Erik paused. "Yes. You may marry my daughter—on one condition."

"Which is?"

"Although may no longer be the Phantom, I am still very much a father. Be aware that if you ever do _anything_ to harm her, I will not hesitate to deal with you accordingly."

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Christophe grinned. "I wouldn't expect anything less."

xxxx

Christophe was waiting in the barn when he heard the sound of hoofbeats coming up the drive. He quickly turned aside and pretended to brush Adèle.

"Christophe!" Mélodie slid off of Toulouse's back and ran to give him a hug. "What are you doing here this early?"

"I had some…business…to discuss with your father."

She frowned. "Is he thinking of buying another horse? He didn't tell me anything about it."

Christophe made a face. "Well…perhaps _business_ isn't really the best way to describe it. You see, I have a very important question I need to ask you…a proposition, if you will. But I had to ask his permission first."

"Why would you need his permission to—" She stopped suddenly as realization dawned on her. "Christophe?" she rasped.

He hit his knees right there in the barn, fully aware that this was not how most noblemen proposed. But then again, most noblemen didn't give up their title for racing and fall in love with what the world considered to be a less than perfect commoner. He pulled a small velvet box out of his jacket pocket, opening it to reveal a magnificent diamond cut in the shape of a heart ringed with two layers of smaller diamonds around it.

"Mélodie Chantal Gérard…will you marry me?"

For a moment, she couldn't speak, hands covering her mouth in silent awe. Then, with a force he hadn't experienced since she'd tackled him as a child, she fairly leapt into his arms, knocking him over backwards into a pile of hay and letting out a high-pitched squeal of delight which frightened the poor horses and nearly made Christophe go deaf.

Erik, who'd been waiting quietly outside, suddenly came around the corner. "I do hope for your sake, de Chagny, that was merely an expression of joy."

Mélodie jumped up from her position on the floor, not even bothering to brush the hay from her skirts, and ran over to him, flashing the ring on her left hand. She was practically bouncing with excitement. "Papa, look! Did you see?"

The absolute ecstasy in her voice as she threw her arms around him was nearly enough to make him forgive the rather inappropriate position he'd found them in. He almost laughed as Christophe scrambled to get up, picking pieces of hay out of his hair and looking altogether quite flustered.

"Were you standing out there the whole time?" he asked.

Before Erik even had the chance to answer, Mélodie had run back over to her fiancé, ripping the mask off her face and wrapping her arms around his neck to give him a well-deserved kiss, which Christophe happily returned.

Erik cleared his throat. "Take it outside, you two."

"But we're _already_ outside," Christophe protested.

"Don't get smart with me, de Chagny. I could still decide to change my mind."

"_Papa_," Mélodie laughed.

Erik smiled but did not revoke his warning.

"Well, how about the woods, then?" Christophe asked.

Erik shrugged. "What about them?"

"The woods are outside. Perhaps you'd prefer us to take our affections there?"

Mélodie glanced at her father to see his reaction.

Erik hesitated. "Be back in an hour."

"Oh, that shouldn't be a problem," Christophe gave a sly glance at Mélodie, "as long as she can keep up."

"You still don't think I can beat you, do you?" she retorted.

"I'll have you know that I've been practicing at the most prestigious racecourse in France for nearly three years now."

Mélodie took her seat on Julius. "Good," she replied. "Because that means I'll have more bragging rights when I win."

In a flash of hooves and a blur of gleaming coats, they were off, laughing and taunting one another all across the open fields. Erik watched with a mixture of happiness and regret as their shadows disappeared into the distance and their voices were swept away in the wind.

xxxx

Mélodie had never been so nervous in her entire life. She smoothed the white silk of her dress for what must have been the hundredth time that day and tried to mentally run through the ceremony again, certain that she'd forget something or fall or make a fool of herself. But there was one thing that concerned her above all else.

She paced the floor, letting out a frustrated groan and throwing up her hands. "Papa, I can't do this!"

Erik laughed. "Well, it's a bit late to be deciding that _now_, don't you think?"

"_No_," she huffed, "that's not what I meant! I mean _this_." She pointed to the mask. "Papa, I don't know what to do."

For all the times she'd complained that he was overreacting about the necessity of the mask, she found that her own bravado had lessened significantly. As her mind had matured and her body had blossomed, she found that she'd become increasingly aware of her appearance, and now the thought of being stripped bare before the congregation, her face on display for all to see, terrified her almost to the point of tears. She might as well be naked, she supposed, for she would certainly feel exposed. She imagined their eyes raking over every blemish and imperfection, and she suddenly wanted nothing more than to crawl up under the white porcelain protection that was her barrier to the world and never come out.

But she had promised Christophe that she would allow him to take it off.

"He'll understand if you change your mind," Erik assured her.

He wasn't particularly fond of the idea himself. They'd argued about it for weeks, Mélodie insisting that she couldn't really kiss with the mask on because it got in the way and pinched their lips and Erik just as adamantly insisting that she could get by with a simple peck until after the ceremony was over. But in the end, Christine had sided with Mélodie, reminding Erik that this was _her_ wedding and that she should be able to make her own decisions about how it was to be conducted. And that had been the end of the discussion.

Mélodie sighed. "Papa, I can't. I didn't just make a promise to Christophe—I made a promise to myself, as well. I promised myself that today I would kiss my husband as any other bride would be allowed to." She twirled a strand of her hair absent-mindedly. "If all the people I've ever known are so shallow that they can't even allow me to enjoy a kiss at my own wedding, then they don't deserve the invitation in the first place! I have never allowed my face to hinder my dreams, and I don't intend to start today." She took his hands in hers, one masked face staring up into the other. "Papa, I want to do this…but it frightens me…."

She looked down. "I know it frightens you too. I know that you still blame yourself for the way that I am…and that I haven't always lived up to your expectations or agreed with you on everything…" When she dared to look up again, her eyes were bright with tears. "But I promise you that today I will make you proud of me."

"Oh, Mélodie." He wrapped his arms around her for what he feared might be the last time for a long time. "I am _already_ proud of you."

She clung to him like a lifeline in a storm. "I love you, Papa."

"I love you too."

When she pulled back, Erik had to brush a tear from her cheek. "You know you're not supposed to cry at your own wedding," he teased. "That duty is reserved for the parents of the bride."

Mélodie frowned. "You're not going to embarrass me, are you?"

He smiled. "I'm your father. It's my job to embarrass you."

She laughed and rolled her eyes.

"Mélodie?" Christine entered the room. "Oh! Mélodie, there you are! They're getting ready to start. I just wanted to come see how you were doing."

"I'm fine, Mama. Just a bit nervous. Does my hair look alright? I-it's not showing, is it?" By 'it,' of course, she meant the relatively hairless portion of her skull.

Christine smiled. "Come see for yourself."

Mélodie hesitantly stepped into the adjacent dressing room. She'd been carefully averting her gaze from the full-length mirror leaning up against the corner all morning, afraid she'd shatter the illusion of beauty that she'd created in her mind. Having grown up in a house without mirrors, the only way she'd ever seen her own reflection was in the still waters of the pond. Never had she looked directly into the polished silvery surface that now stood before her, and never in her life had she been more surprised than when she saw the image reflected back.

The woman who stared back at her was a vision in white. She wore a long silken dress that reached to the floor. It was simple, yet stunning, accented with pearls and embroidered with small white flowers whose stems swirled and intertwined in delicate patterns across the bottom half of the dress. The bust was plain and tightly fitting, clinging to her curves in all the right places, with a low neckline and off-the-shoulder sleeves. Her hair was parted neatly to the side, falling past her shoulders in perfect golden ringlets. A tiara of tiny silver daisies attached to a veil that had yet to be pulled down sat upon her head. Even the white mask that covered the right side of her face seemed somehow brighter and more beautiful than she remembered. In a word, she was stunning.

Mélodie ran her fingers almost reverently over the glass.

"Is that _me_?" she whispered.

Her mother smiled. "That's you."

"I…I've never felt so beautiful."

Christine put an arm around her daughter, leaning her right cheek against Mélodie's left. With the exception of the hair color and the mask, they looked almost identical.

"You _are_ beautiful." [1]

xxxx

Music had always played an important role in Erik's life. Some of the most pivotal moments of his life had been associated with song, the music forever etched into his memory evoking feelings of the time and place that he'd first heard the score—the music of the gypsies dancing in the twilight, the arias of the Opera House bringing beauty to the darkness, and the lullabies of ancient tongues comforting generations of innocence. Now the music was marking another event, and as the first strains of the organ rang out over the church, he knew that this day—for better or worse—would be one of those memories he'd never forget.

It was strange, for once, to be the one listening to the music rather than playing it. On most occasions, he was the one creating the score that would define another's life. But today he was no longer a spectator. Today he was walking proudly by his daughter's side.

As they reached the end of the aisle, he once again found himself giving up a young woman that he loved to a de Chagny—though the circumstances were very different—and the irony of the situation, poetic as it may have been, was not lost on him. But whereas before he'd cried out of despair, he knew that any tears he shed today would be of joy—even if his heart was breaking. He could feel her fingers slipping out of his hand, and for a moment, he almost didn't let go. Slowly, he pressed a gentle kiss to the back of her hand and placed it in Christophe's, his own hands lingering—one on top of Mélodie's, the other below Christophe's—just long enough to let them know that he was giving them his blessing. And then the softness of her touch was gone, leaving his hands feeling incredibly empty.

Taking a seat beside Christine, he silently wrapped an arm around her shoulders, thankful for the comforting warmth of her presence, and resigned himself to watching the remainder of the ceremony through the blur that was already starting to cloud his vision.

A flood of memories washed over him, a nostalgic look back on all the circumstances that had brought them to this very moment—and if the looks on their faces were any indication of their own thoughts, the rest of the family was feeling the same way.

Raoul was thinking of a red scarf in the sea; a coincidence, really, that the wind had carried it away just as he'd happened to be walking by, and yet if the wind hadn't been blowing that day, he might never have met the girl who would one day unwittingly introduce him to his future wife.

Meg's mind had drifted back to the first day she'd laid eyes on the handsome vicomte. Even then, she had wanted him but wanted her friend's happiness more—and somehow, through a strange turn of events, she had managed to get both.

Madame Giry remembered two children, born decades apart yet closer in soul than anyone she'd ever known. They had come into the world under very different circumstances—one born out of wedlock and reared in a cage, the other brought up in a loving home and thrown out into the world when tragedy struck. In a sense, she had raised them both, and seeing them now as the proud parents of her grandson's bride, she couldn't have been happier for everyone involved.

Christine was thinking of her own wedding, many years ago, to the man who had long been her Angel and her friend. It had been a small affair, with only the priest, Meg, and Madame Giry to witness it, but it had been the most magical moment of her life. In a day and time when arranged marriages were still common, she knew that she'd been given a once-in-a-lifetime chance to marry for love, and although Erik had never really quite fit the category of 'Prince Charming,' she couldn't have imagined a better fairytale ending to their story.

Erik's mind sorted through all of this and came to the conclusion that, had one little part of the story been changed, things might have ended very differently and that coincidence could hardly be held responsible for things working out the way they had.

Mélodie and Christophe, of course, were far too busy looking into one another's eyes to think of much of anything.

At long last, after nearly an hour of ritualistic performance, reciting vows, and a little bit of a sermon thrown in for good measure, Father Martin made the announcement that everyone had been waiting for.

"You may now kiss the bride."

And for a moment, Mélodie thought her heart had stopped beating. She looked up at Christophe, uncertainty shining in her eyes. Could she really do this? Did she even want to? Unconsciously, she felt her gaze wander over to her parents where she found her father's eyes, looking for strength.

In the split second that their eyes met, Erik made a decision that he knew he would regret. He started to stand.

Christine leaned over. "Erik, what are you doing?" she whispered.

His heart was hammering against his chest, and he had to close his eyes to keep from backing down. His mind drifted back to one of their earliest arguments about the mask.

_Mélodie, you may stop wearing your mask when I stop wearing mine_.

He gave Christine's hand a squeeze.

"Keeping a promise."

Without a word, he stood and slowly removed the mask and wig, his hands visibly shaking as he lowered them to his side, his breathing panicked and uneven through the chorus of gasps that filled the air. He knew that if he turned around, he'd see that every single person in the church was staring at him, but that had been the intention all along. When at last he lifted his gaze, feeling utterly foolish and more afraid than he'd been in a long time, the sheer relief and admiration in his daughter's own tear-filled eyes brought a smile to his face.

Her confidence restored, Mélodie turned back to Christophe, nodding her approval as he snatched away the mask and captured her lips with his own, forgetting everything but their own happiness to everyone else's great shock.

Christine stood now, tears of motherly pride and joy running down her cheeks as she gave Erik's trembling arm a gentle squeeze and, slowly, started clapping. One by one, the others followed suit. Madame Giry was first, standing with the regal poise of the ballet mistress she'd once been and tapping her cane against the wooden floor, followed shortly thereafter by Meg and then Raoul until at last the entire congregation was on its feet, clapping and cheering for the newlyweds with a vigor no one had witnessed before.

But Christophe and Mélodie were oblivious to all the fanfare around them. They had better things to do than worry about society's opinions and they were too happy to care.

As the last of the cheering died down, sunlight streaming through the stained-glass window of an angel high above, Erik took Christine into his arms and kissed her, thanking God for the angel in his life and the little family they had become.

[1] The following section was heavily inspired by the song "Broken" by Lifehouse. If this was fanfic was ever turned into a movie, that's the music I imagine playing in the background. :)


	21. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

The years following Mélodie and Christophe's wedding were, like most, filled with ups and downs.

Madame Giry, after many years of working part-time, finally retired from the Opera Populaire and moved in with the de Chagnys where she was given her own private room and the utmost respect of all the servants living on the estate. She lived to see several of her great-grandchildren and died an old woman, fully content with the life she'd been given.

Raoul and Meg enjoyed the rest of their years together, giving birth to another son, Étienne, before surpassing childbearing age, and watching proudly as their older children grew into capable young adults.

Henri eventually took over the de Chagny estate, bearing the family title with the honor and responsibility of the best of noblemen, while Marie inherited her grandmother's passion for dancing and went on marry one of the young theater managers, securing a spot as the new ballet instructor.

Erik and Christine never had any more children and went back to living much as they had before Mélodie was born. It was a quiet sort of life, but it gave them plenty of time for one another—and they relished every minute together. There was still the occasional disagreement over this or that, but in the end, they always managed to forgive one another, making love and music more beautiful than they had before.

Christophe and Mélodie moved to the countryside just on the outskirts of London where Christophe became established as one of the best horse breeders in Europe and Mélodie published several books under the pen name 'William T.' which often caused quite a stir when she showed up at book signings and her loyal followers discovered that the author they so admired was, in fact, a woman. The mask became her signature, giving an air of mystery that added to her natural beauty and feminine allure so much so that it quickly became a fashion statement across the country, women of every class designing their own as a proclamation of liberty and style until at last they decided to hold an annual masquerade ball in her honor. Mélodie honestly found the whole thing quite ridiculous but played along for the fun of it, swapping the plain white porcelain for a decorative mask of sequins and feathers for certain public occasions just to see how everyone would react. [1]

From time to time, the couple would return to France to visit their families, typically living in the de Chagny country house for the majority of their stay and catching everyone up on the latest happenings in England over dinner and a fire.

In time, they gave birth to a pair of beautiful blonde-haired, blue-eyed twin girls, who they named Marguerite and Madeleine, both with perfect porcelain faces and smiles as bright as the sun—and years later, a son with chocolate brown curls and vibrant green eyes who was formally christened Erik Raoul de Chagny.

[1] The mask as a fashion statement idea came from a great little fic for the Charles Dance Phantom called "Denoument" by Clever Lass. If you love the 1990 mini-series, then you'll love her story! Go check it out! :)

**...And they all lived happily ever after :) Well, guys, that's it! I hope you all enjoyed reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thank you so much for all the reviews and favs! Happy reading!**

**~CaptainHooksGirl~**


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